not sure why.
somehow i got to thinking
about the notes that liz
used to write
to me in the
blank cards
she used to buy.

i think i have
them all.
or at the very
least, most of them.
can’t look at them yet.
can barely stand
to think about them.
i will never
see another.

she would come across
them, months, years later
(usually while cleaning my desk)
and would say,
“why do you keep this shit?”
“i don’t know.”
is all i could
ever come up with.

but even before
she was gone, this ephemera
from these important moments
was something that
i knew i had to keep.
i just couldn’t
articulate why.

recently i
came across a couple
of notes i had
written to her
before heading off
on business trips.
they weren’t in
fancy letter-pressed
cards or on that
expensive-ass stationary
that only a woman
would buy.
they were scrawled out
on 8.5×11 paper,
or on sheets of
lined notebook paper
thoughtlessly torn from one of
those composition books
i’d stolen from work,
the ones with
the black and white covers,
or on any scrap
of paper i could
find as i ran out
the door to
catch my cab.

as i find these
things i think,
“why did she keep this shit?”
i wish i could ask her.

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