P.S. i love you.

and i told you once
in a postcript
on one of those little letters
that i would write
and fold tightly
to slide between your fingers
in the passing periods
laughing a little
because we were in such a rush
and it made it feel secret
like something hidden
to touch fingers in the crowded hall
of bumping shoulders and bags
that we slipped fingertips against each other
and smiled
without breaking stride
i told you once
that i was going to have a small house
full of soft things
thick with cushions
without a sharp edge in the place
and there i would sit
with my poetry and pillows
safe
and you did not understand
or if you did
you said nothing
in your note that replied
on paper with ragged edges
and that was more rolled than folded
with its creases rough breaking
through the words
like a road map or veins
the hard veins on the hands of old men
talking of todays hero
some song singer
who drove his voice raspy
in search of meaning and pain
and i understood your traveling
your weary feet that pushed on
for the next sand strewn mecca
looking for something that will plunge your soul
for some heady moment
into meaning
into eternity
and i understood
and so let you go
with only the whispers
to follow you on your path

in my home i dreamt
i was not alone

there was a door that opened
and a door that closed

and if you knew
i'll never know