I'm not bitter

Pebbles and stones tossed into the glass mar its surface.

The cracks are filled and scratches buffed.

The window maintains its integrity but,

Can we even see each other through it?

Away, deep in a closet in the back room beneath the foundations, a chest.

Perhaps box is a more matching noun, chest with too far an air of regality.

A box.

Molded and mildewed and cobwebbed and rusted.

A box.

It is opened only when needed.

Above and far, proudly displayed on the table for all guests and newcomers, a chest.

Yes, in this case I believe chest is most becoming of the container.

Not a box.

Burnished and varnished and buffed and gleaming.

A chest.

It shows its contents to the world.

Though thoroughly mismatched, these two were of a pair.

Under layers of dust and paint and without years of care and degradation they would be recognized as of like make.

Yet one sits subterannean and another on a pedestal.

The house cannot stand without both, but only one is kept polished and fine?

I'm bringing it up from the cellar.

Years of grime fall away beneath a sponge and wire brush.

Its braces and trim begin to gleam from my cloth.

After all, a skeleton is about the same shape as everyone else.

Head, body, arms, legs.

“Maybe he’s just pale. Maybe his hollow chest was a trick of the light.”

The eyes usually give it away.

Once they know for sure, everything is different.

Those that love me tell me not to smoke or drink or eat too much.

“Maybe it’s not the best idea considering, well, you know.”

Why should I fear addiction or liver disease or fat.

The bones don’t mind.

They want me to cover my frame.

There’s nothing for anyone to see.

No flesh or sinew to offend the eye.

Pondering why they cared so much I realized: