Boxes - a poem

Isn't life strange?

Here’s a poem I wrote recently. It should clue you in, to some degree, on my life these days and my state of mind. It’s quite sad. My apologies in advance.

(Update: I’ve also written more explicitly about this shit here and here and I published a very different kind of poem here. If you’re looking for some life-philosophy I also penned my Theory Of Eight).

‘boxes’ by erik kain

soon, even the boxes will be gone
the stacks of clothes
the makeup bags and bottles of perfume and hair-dye
all the necklaces and rings you never wear
every bag and coat, every pair of boots

the pink heart jacket we found in Toronto
you wore that night in the hotel
drunk and dancing while we made up
some silly forgotten song
the expensive French pants from Annecy
you never put on

homemade shelves and painted chairs
roller skates
every little trinket you adorned our home with
lost in boxes

I can’t wait to be rid of it all.

you stuffed this house to the brim
with ornaments of you
with old vases and gold lamps
that pillow with Frida Kahlo’s face
the elephant statues
vintage furniture crowding every wall
cookbooks and alcohol

...

soon, even the bed will be gone
all the sheets and pillowcases erased

but I’ll still find your hair on the tiles
your scent in the closets
your fingerprints on the plates

I’ll still hear your voice in the kitchen
and taste your salt on my tongue
green eyes smiling under a hot sun

and every beach and airport and cantina
every corner of this goddamn house
will echo and shudder and buckle
with your ghost.