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For L.
February 7, 2012
In the drawer where I keep things hidden, there is a ball
made of scraps. These are pieces of you. They are gray, tattered,
faded beyond recognition. They rarely see the light of day. I wonder about them
all the time. They don’t remind me of you
but of someone else, instead.
If I watched you through my glass of water
would you bend? The scraps have lost
your smell. Soap and tiredness are replaced
with smoke and dirt, every time I check. I don’t check.
I sit on my doorstep and wait for a new piece of you. If I went looking,
would it tumble away in the wind? Slip into the treads of my boots?
My address has not changed.
What you give me, I will keep.
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