I want to decorate my room with things I wish you had sent. A charm bracelet. A jersey. A miniature panda. I would place them according to importance below the postcards from Boston, New York City, New Haven. Little reminders that you were thinking about me. Little reminders that you were there. A note with your childish handwriting would tell me that you miss me; that you wish I was sitting across from you with a purple mug full of coffee in one hand and one of your oversized t-shirts over my body. Kissing my skin. Resting lovingly on the tops of my thighs.

Instead, I hide what you had sent me. It sits in a perfectly wrapped box on the bottom drawer of my desk. A typed note ending with an emoticon is the only writing I have from you. Minus your scrawl. Minus any emotion. The box came with a return policy.

Thank you, but you can have it back.

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