you don't get to wrap me in a napkin like you did
put me in your pocket, carry me about like a little universe of your own.
I am not all together. I leave pieces of myself everyone--
fingerprints on filmy teacups, ash between carpet fibers, my earrings on your night stand.
we are not static and
there will be no missing of me.
you will not see me in russet colors of fall days or in the reflection of a lake
on some afternoon when the sun hits right and you've forgotten your glasses.
my gentle pining will wane, replaced with aching joints and a glass bottle
that I will speak into softly what I could not say to you in exchange for
a napkin wrapped around
marb reds, floral cups and my earring, that little seahorse
that I left on your nightstand once.