the box

a box comes in the mail.
you see the squared
brown truck pull
away, chugging up to
another street.
it's a large box
sitting on your porch
blocking your door.
you sit beside it
and read the return
address. you can't
decide whether to open
it or not, or just
send it back, whatever
it might be.
slowly you pull back
the strips of tape,
then pull the side
open. just a note,
handwritten lies inside.
the rest is empty
and dark. nothing.
this is how I feel
without you it says.