I said
they were all sad.
That they were about
pillow-hearts ripped
at the seams, and feeling small
enough to be folded and tucked into
your shoe–forgotten about until
one day I’d tickle your toes, and
you’d pull me out–soft and
worn at the edges.
That I hoped they’d
never be about you.
And yet, I am
overstuffed, spilling over with
all of the words I wished
I’d pushed off the edge of
my lips
before I walked away. I am
praying on this paper
just to keep myself
sane,
just to keep myself from
crying about one more person
I’m supposed to stop loving;
one more person
I’m supposed to forget.
Silenticel 