—I DON’T EVEN THINK YOU THINK SO

 

I repurpose myself as a lost book on a bus, the one you find when you’re younger, before you’ve found me, your hands thumbing the parchment, fingering my spine with the buttery softness of a moth, scanning all the words I have assembled, the ones I will whisper to you inside the margins and indentations, a revered music in the deft language that only we can hear, like a lone shell when it’s pressed just so against the ear, you stopping at the dogeared pages, giving those special attention, looking at what’s written there as if it’s a portent of what we’ll become, and when, and why.