X-change of Gifts
And what about the cards and poems, quotes,
The flowers he sent to me? They don’t exist.
I packaged all of them, his little notes,
His trinkets that I’d kept like treasured cysts
In my aorta, tiny souvenirs
He’d handmade, made from love, and gave them back
When we were finished. “Just two mismatched queers,”
You’d say, “no reason for a cardiac,
For trying to hold on to flimsy stuff.”
You’re right, at least about the second part.
To you we seemed caught up in blindman’s buff,
Each trying hard to blunder into heart.
..Then he returned these things that I had striven
….To bind with. We ended up forgiven.