[the chapter of your love]

i guess this is the part where
i'm supposed to be crying
and listening to sad music
and staring at the ceiling counting
blinds on crooked fingers

we were blinds, looking through
and past each other, shading eyes
from a too-bright truth

cheap tint peeling off
rolled-up windows,
warps and crackles
discolouring, warbling
shards of light across
folded legs

folded flaps of paper
on which i write,
and i would make envelopes
and suffer licking glue
and send you pieces of my words

but i have lost your address
in the unpacking
and if i found it would i
clutch it in my hands like some
sweet-loving child?
or rip it [you] to pieces,
seal them in an envelope,
and keep them in the chapter of your love