Not the top closet shelf—

not far enough—

what you wrote could swing from the closet pole, 

rappel the sleeve of the sweater 

you gave me that Christmas.

And not a taped box in the basement—

not far enough—

what you wrote could slice open the flaps,

steal up the flight of stairs.

Where then?

The fireplace says it’s self-evident.

But heat is the last thing 

I want you to feel 

from me—

find me somewhere colder, more distant.

Put me out of reach.