The box you hide in, so confining. Corrugated wall on which to draw pictures of all the confusing, conflicting times through which you’ve lived, but never on the outside of the box where others might see. You keep those secrets and I stand out here, knocking to get in. There is no door, nor any windows, but when I prop up a ladder, I find that the top flaps are interleaved to close you in; tension keeping the flaps closed. I pull on the flaps, and you pull back, a tug-of-war, vulnerability and intimacy at stake. I sit, my back propped up on the walls of your box, waiting, and I sing you songs, write small stories, think good thoughts. I’m still here, wishing there were a way in so I could join you, or a way out so you could walk amongst the flowers, flit through fields of butterflies, make windows and doorways in the walls to let in the sun and fresh air.