Somewhere in that menagerie of keepsakes
between that rock you thought didn't belong down by the Native brook
because you said it belonged in salt water,
with confidence,
because growing up by the ocean has turned you into a marine geologist
So you put it in the drawer with the broken arrow and the blue beetle and a hair tie you got from that little girl who grew up so fast that the hair tie is one thing she may still need from you
and the broken sea glass
and the splintered pencils
and string
and toothpicks
and the gum wrapper from the day those braces came off
In that drawer with no inventory,
no index, no labels
just a lot of sand and dirt
hiding behind a black treasure-
you know and I know it-
is where you left your heart
one summer day when you could no longer stand to feel it beating inside you
from all the hurt
So you tattooed it onto your back where you could forget it
So it could live in a place where memory does not thrive
It's in that drawer, _______.
You know it and I know it.
when will you reach for it?
11/19/2023
(written for... you know who you are)
