By Casey Young
“The name sounds like a dream.”
The first words that fall from the paper as my shaking hands allow them to tremble to the floor
It was the first time in months I’ve pulled your letter from the box beneath my bed
As if I had left them any longer, maybe you’d somehow seep through my box spring and find yourself next to me, again
Your arms holding the intention of shelter and your smile posing as one of the only homes I have ever known
Writing me into your poetry as your words became my walls and the cadence of your voice, the soft fireplace
A feeling only we could know
A place tucked between our stories to hide under blanket forts with flashlights to keep the darkness from creeping in
Where the world would not have touched us, had we allowed it
We allowed it
A tear smearing the ink from your flow pen
The same pen, presumably, I signed my name with in the back of your pocket notebook so that you could take a piece of me with you
The only piece I’m sure you think you have
But for tonight, I’ll fold you back up
The last words you ever wrote to me branding themselves into my skin
“Be well.”