My box of broken thoughts

far on the left of my bookcase
below Jane and Agatha
sits an old clementine box
filled with scraps of paper and sticky notes,
the place where my thoughts go
to be forgotten

sometimes though,
when I feel a breeze
through my window
on a summer night
I'll take the crumpled up pages
from my box
and read 
each lavender scented sheet
until the girl
who I'd hidden away so carefully
drifts through my wall
and I find myself telling her
all that has happened
since she left