You’re always quiet until we’re alone.
You save your thoughts in a jar
To cash in for mine.
I take them home in my pocket,
My hand cupped around them so they won’t jingle.
They’re a secret;
you made me promise.
I spread them out on my bed,
Stack them,
Read their inscriptions.
If I concentrate, I can feel
Your fingerprints against mine.
Some of your thoughts are mottled, and I wonder where they came from.
I pick at the rusty stains, but they stick
Like ancient barnacles to a ship’s hull.
Some of your thoughts are so beautiful; I trace the filigree and smile,
Never ceasing to marvel
At the mint of your mind.
Sometimes I find an old, lucky memory Buried under bright copper ideologies.
I like to roll those across the floor, watching
As time spins backwards
And I can see us again
and feel us.
Tomorrow I’ll ask you,
“Do you remember this?”
Your breath will cloud in the frigid quiet,
Your laugh echoing past the empty swing set.
“Yes!” you’ll shout, heads turning
As we climb into the rattling bus.
But I won’t see them; I’ll only see the light in your eyes.
