Nothing is as savory as the taste of an envelope seal
when you’re entrusting a letter to the mysterious ways of the postal service.
I think to myself, “There’s my voice, inside that box, waiting to be heard!”
It’s so unusual, how sacred and hidden my chicken scratch feels;
words and ideas are like pennies on the sidewalk these days,
folks walking by them without stopping to pick them up,
examine them, cherish; no one has the patience.
But I took the time to stitch name tags into the faded shirts
of new acquaintances, hoping to ship to you tiny identities
and meaningful stories, because I feel so full of them.
I glow with joy and fullness because you listen.
The pages only hold so many lines, though,
aren’t infinite like speech bubbles in shared space,
and I can’t decide if you’d rather hear
about the kitten with the electric yellow eyes
or how lonely it is to try and peel back the dust bunnies
of someone else’s past life, try to give my bedroom walls
a fresh start, new paint, and hope to convince myself
that I belong here now. I’m not sure yet,
but I’m sure of you
and how these letters put my lonely fears to rest a while.
They are tickets to the train that’s slowly taking me home.