Your name has no meaning – only
a collection of sounds or
a jigsaw of symbols.
But when the cacophony of
the rigid consonants
tumbles out between unsuspecting lips
or when my eyes accidentally skim over
the perfect combination of letters,
I am wrenched into a whirlwind of vertigo
and drowned in melancholy,
yet wild, long-forgotten happiness
in dusty vintage photographs
and ethereal pastel hues that transport me
back to when it all made sense
and when I looked into people's eyes
like they mattered
and when you would run your finger
along the faint imprints beneath my wrist
as if you were hypnotizing me into loving you.
And then I remind myself that
even ants bravely trek forth
and I pervade my mind with thoughts about
anything but the way your voice sounds like
the staticity of warm laundry
when you talk in your sleep.