I wonder 
If there truly is such a thing 
As getting over 
A love 
What if instead 
That bruised 
Still aching part of you 
Just gets cut off 
More or less neatly 
Depending on the skill 
Of the surgeon 
Then is promptly sealed up 
In a shiny metal box 
And quietly put away 
In the attic 

For everyone knows attics 
Are the best places to store 
Your forgettables

The trouble is  
Some get into the nasty habit
Of periodically digging up
Through old things
In hopes of discovering
Some valuable antique 
Like an old 
Surprisingly well preserved 
Family painting 
Or a piece of furniture just
In need of a spruce

On visits as these
From amid the intricate lace
Of cobwebs
Mercilessly filtering the rays of the sun   
And beneath the multilayered coat 
Of almost white 
Dust turning everything into an
Undistinguishable mass  
Some kind of stir comes up
First a soft clink 
Then a lonely clang
Then others like them 
But in a swifter and swifter procession 
Gradually gaining comprehensible form 
Like a distant melody
You didn’t even know you knew

Suddenly an image pops up
Perfectly attuned to the musical notes
Ghostly of course but clear as day
It stays for a few minutes for you to peruse 
Bit by bit
In the glimmering yellow light
Then quietly retreats to a corner
Making room for another 
And another
So before you know it there you are 
Completely surrounded 
By all you thought you had put aside
Years and years ago
A furtive look 
A blushing smile 
An electric touch of the hands

Of course you will have to pay 
A bit of attention
To the more unfriendly ghosts as well
The frowns and the tears 
The hurts and the breakups
You will be relieved though 
That these have become more 
Mellow with the passage of time  
So now you can finally look them 
In the eye without
The falling apart you thought 
Was going to be your doom

After a while you'll notice
The spirits starting to fidget 
Exchanging mute restless glances 
Amongst themselves
The stir begins again 
Disintegrating
From an impeccably harmonious tune  
All the way down to a lonely clang 
Then a soft clink 

The shiny metal boxes are as closed as ever
Underneath a coat of thick white dust 
Untouched
The intricate cobwebs still filtering the light
Undisturbed  
The attic now needs to go back to sleep
Everyone knows it's not a place to actually 
Live in 
Too many things put away for safekeeping
Not fit to be thrown away but of no real use
In the day to day
You can visit of course whenever you wish
Just don't forget the time and place 
On the outside
And keep in mind  
Everything here must always go back 
To its own shiny 
Metal box 

(2022)