(our first conversation was whispered, soft words during quiet study, and as much as i try to remember the words they slip through my mind, smoke through paper walls.

but. i do remember this.)

the scratch of the pen on a post it

the scrape of the post it over the desk

the crunch-crinkle as i slide it in to my hand

(so you see the words, they may slither through my mental grasp like the strings of a balloon floating higher onward, upward, out of reach

but this. i remember this.)

my heartbeat a needle, tattooing a tempo in my throat

the nine digits, chicken scratch pecking at my eyes

your smile, crooked, waiting for it's match.