I searched for my latest copy of my insurance policy, and when I opened the fourth shoebox, I found all the stuff you left behind, mixed innocently with tax forms, old pay stubs, and timesheets.
You weren't much of a writer, but your handwriting said a lot about you.
It was dark and heavy, as if your were trying to impress your whole being onto a scrap piece of paper. Sometimes you'd write jokes, or odd challenges concerning artists' names of one-hit wonders. Occasionally, you'd leave a list that read the titles of books I should check out, or new bands you were sure I'd like.
You weren't much of a speller, either. You'd purposely misspell my name with just a "k" and an "i" and simply say that you always thought of me that way.
We were never in love, but for some reason I saved these silly little notes of yours. I haven't seen you for at least a year.
I put them back in the box, anyway.