I run my thumb
over scars from a crooked
price tag and fingerprint bruises
across your breast,
remembering when I burnt
my feet on the pavement,
dropped the newspaper,
and ripped open
your yellow envelope.
Sliding into my hand,
riding a cardboard tag
stamped with “The Bluebird:
A Gift for Happiness,”
wrapped in a letter from a friend
scribbled with smiling
stick figures, trees,
and the sun in black
pen at the bottom.
It read, “I bought this
seven years ago.
Crazy how time flies,”
and “Remember that first night
we talked until breakfast,
laughing when the birds sang?”
Didn’t mention
how she was doing or explain
why she sent you.
I called, rambled a two-minute
thank you message.
Didn’t mention
how I was doing or explain
what you meant— -
because I know
she knows we’re too fragile to carry
happiness alone,
yet you’d make me believe
I could support its weight,
knowing in the end
happiness might break us.
1 comment:
Love it. I still think of when you said Leslie asked if it was a love poem haha.
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