Poem 78 Revised

I can remember coming home to post-it notes
clinging calmly to lamp shades, docked to doorknobs
And when I collected them all in a pile I signed
Imagining all summer where they might be hidden
where you might tuck them away, what color pens
you would choose to scribe over and over
I love you I love you I love
 
A quiet reflection, with each smoothed in my hands
fumbling with the frailty of love, paper love lingers
smooth to the touch like egg shells; impossibly cool.
Love is the prettiest word to behold on a post-it. 

Sad to see them bundled together, more self piteous than sad.
I love you I love you I love… afternoons post, opening drawers;
emptying boxes, rearranging shoes harboring hideaway post-its
Held quite still, clutching the confetti between my fingers,
this paper, this love, hinged on hangers, crumpled in corners
boarded in book ends: not infinite, not over yet.
—ECW

Poem 78

Post



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.
–ECW