A Box to Fill Up

Lying in bed, in this room, one afternoon, 

while rain water kept dripping on the glass window, 

depriving the room of daylight, I kept peering, 

for no reason, at the ceiling. 

Signs of you were in every corner: 

that small picture frame which kept your smile, 

those magazines you often asked me to buy, 

that lipstick-written graffiti you wrote on the wall, 

and the laptop full of logs 

of our chat. 

Today, at 36 degrees centigrade, I've got a box 

I can't get myself to fill up.