Poem 78


I can remember coming home to post-it notes
clinging precariously to lamp shades, grasping at doorknobs.
And when I had collected them all in a pile I sighed, 
for I had been wondering about them all summer,
wondering where you might hide them, what color pens you would 
choose to inscribe over and over: I love you I love you I love.
It was a sad moment. I collected each one in my fingers, felt the frailty of love.
Paper love letters smooth in my fingers like eggshells, but warmer, paper
warms faster than eggshells; paper can be re-perfected. Love is the prettiest word to
behold on a post-it. I nearly wept to see them all there crooked together.
Sad to have found them. More self piteous than sad.
I love you I love you I love… those afternoons post, opening drawers;
unpacking boxes, rearranging shoes harboring hideaway post-its. Lines 
of a sonnet could be fleshed out there, in the terror of discovering the Very. Last. One.
I held quite still. Clutched the paper between my fingers. This paper; this love
hiding behind hangers and book ends, on the underside of tables. Not infinite, not over yet.

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