lost

a fairy story of sorts

on the upper shelf of my closet
under a mass of cobwebs and dirty socks
is a box
if it were polished it would shine
like the moon over the ocean
but it’s dull, worn, tarnished so that
it’s impossible to see the figures
dancing on its lid
the silver ribbons and copper roses
and the ruby in the shape of my heart
my own fairy story

inside
beating slow and sure
my fragile heart
I carved it out when I was very young
sure that long ago pain was the end of the world
so I locked it away
for a while I would take it out
from time to time
polish the box and open it
to see the pulsing chambers
and pray to remain untouched

time passes
and when I think again of my box
now that my brown hair fades into grey
and princes or frogs
seem to be someone else’s future
not mine
I find myself wondering about the key
it was small and white
and kept in a safe place

but I’ve forgotten where