There’s a box under my bed
that couldn’t have gotten there on its own
Perhaps it simply gravitated
or grew itself some legs

I do not need to find a key
when I want to open the box
because it does not shield from me
its contents with a lock

Only at night I ease out of my covers
and onto the cold wooden floorboards
My pajamas gather dust
as I slide under the bedframe

My fingers grope in the darkness
until my eyes adjust
They clamp around the box triumphant,
and I drag us both out

The surface is smooth against my fingertips,
save for the scratch on the top
I run my hands along the sides slowly,
just to make sure it is actually in my lap

Opening the top is always a rush
Terror sends my fingers shaking,
but curiosity and wonder
always make me follow through

There is nothing in the box
But then again,
there never has been
Its insides are cold

But the thought of what I could fill this box with,
the treasures that I will collect
throughout my life and cherish,
makes me smile

The box isn’t empty to me
It may not contain any objects now,
but it does hold one thing:
promise