Today, I'm not the one to write this blog. Instead, it's a dear friend of mine who has written a post. As for me, I'm completely in love with this piece, and I hope you will love it too.

He stands perfectly still, staring at the box in front of him. It’s empty. But he wonders if it would fit everything. He takes off his watch and puts it in the box. It’s the watch he would glance at, in excited anticipation, everytime she was running late. Looking impatient while secretly savouring every moment spent longing and waiting. He takes off his necklace and puts it in the box. The one that she would play with absent-mindedly when he would hold her tight in his arms, in those moments when everything else in the world by the two of them would evaporate into a purple mist of insignificance. He unbuttons his shirt, takes it off, and puts it in the box. The shirt that she had bought him. The one that suited him perfectly. Matched his smile. Fit him better than his own skin. He takes off his belt and puts it in the box. The belt that she fumbled with the first time they undressed eachother like two hungry leopards clawing at a gazelle. He takes off his shoes and puts them in the box. The ones with the pointy tips that she teased him for. The ones with the worn soles from running, not walking, to meet her under the street lamp, where her silhouette looked like his every dream, painted in black, across the cityscape at night. He takes off his pants and puts them in the box. The ones with the pockets that had been loosened because she liked putting her hands in them and swaying back and forth when they would use any excuse to delay a sad goodnight. He looks at the box. There is room. So he takes off his skin. The skin that she wanted to live in. The skin stained with the colour of her tears. The skin still bearing her scent and shivering at the thought of her touch. He takes off his muscles. The ones that were never strong enough to stop those trains from taking her away, to keep her beside him. The ones that wanted to absorb her into him with every embrace. He takes off his bones and puts them in the box. All of them. The ones that helped him understand the meaning of the phrase ‘aching for someone’. The ones that would turn to dust six feet under, but would never forget the sound of her voice. He takes off his eyes and puts them in the box. The ones that couldn’t see anything beyond her smile. The one that can play back, like an old, creaky projector, every movement of her body, every contour of her face, on command.

He closes the box and puts it away. Somewhere safe. Now all that’s left, all that he is, is a beating heart.

Then he stops.