It wasn’t real. I wasn’t real.

I held the box that held him, the rough reminder 

of the cardboard released ants below my flesh.

He was in there, motionless, breathless, 

and it was all beyond me. Unbelievable. 

I wanted to hold him, not that box. 

I wanted the box gone, I wanted it out of my sight. 

I didn’t want to let go. If I did, I’d let go of him too.

Time was a turtle, so slow I just wished 

it would stop all together.

I hate that damn box. 

Even when I hid my sight behind my lids, 

my hand still found its rightful place upon his back.

It was the last time, and it made my fingertips burn. 

They burned the memory of him into my prints. 

So I could never forget. I had to close the lid. 

I said my parting, while that box heckled me.

I had to leave that box that held him. 

And all I got back was a mawkish, measly pile of ash. 

Enclosed in a jar of glass.

I love that damn jar.