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I keep it in a wooden box under my bed.

It’s hidden, by my weed, and stale cigarettes.

It’s tucked away,

Away from the cold,

Away from eyes,

Away from remembering.

I’m forgetting slowly, like a tide,

The blood on my hands.

I’m forgetting the cold night where I,

A naïve, horny boy,

Gave you my sweater.

Happiness,

It’s like morning fog.

You returned it the next day,

It smelled like you.

And yesterday I hid it.

Tucked away,

So I forget you.