A Slip of Paper.

I think I'll write your name on a slip of paper
torn from the corner of my favourite book.
I'll scribble it with a black ink pen,
a little twirl underlining those few letters
all in a row,
those few little letters that spell out
the name I like the best.
I'll trace over it a couple of times,
each rounded edge thickening,
as though every time I highlight it
will make it last for me.
On impulse, I'll crumple it,
feeling kind of silly,
like a school-age girl still crushing
or a lovesick boy's initials still killing trees.
Then I'll open it back up and add your last name;
an average name,
a perfect name.
I'll cover your first name with my thumb
and picture mine is written there
and kind of smile,
then shake my head,
my finger running over the ridged edge.
Before I'll think, I'll quickly kiss it,
as if my thoughts could kiss you
from a daydream far away,
folding the little piece in two,
then four,
and tucking it in my jeans pocket.


October 10, 2009