Christmas in Two Thousand

i'm an old Christmas card: red, green, and a bit of silver sparkling dust,
lying in a pile of old photographs
in your storage room in a box. 

sitting in the dark, my glimmer outshone by a thin layer of dust 
that settled on me night after night silently, hiding me from view -
each time your wine glasses clinked above,
each time a new voice was heard in your doorway,
and was never heard again, 
and all the times you've come down here but never saw me,
what kept me company were your termite-smitten photographs, 
also behind a layer of dust, also forgotten -
a group of unfamiliar faces sharing their fading smiles, 
clad in torn jeans and shirts untidily tucked - forlorn like me. 

if you find me, i might not be as whole as i once was somewhere in two 
thousand.
and it's unlikely that i'd survive amid a termite colony.
but if you do find me, think of me fondly,
i was your friend and i couldn't confess it then;
that i thought of you often, and i always wondered if you thought of me too
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