“When I’m old and not important to anyone anymore can I still be important to you”
All the failed greeting cards I have ever written sit on a shelf waiting for you and I have memorized your movements in the dark, you always pause before you shut the door as though seeking out my shape in the dark is enough to make you come home. Five years ago I wrote the first and last love letter I ever committed to an envelope, you squinted at it and your lips pursed in visible disgust and I never put such private thoughts in your hands again. You think sentimentality is a cheap and easily transferable commodity, you do not want my mysterious emotions explained in detail to you, and the ease in which I put them down means they will soon dry up. I pick out my prose from the vivid and most erotic thoughts and fill up the blank pages in the introductions of books because you have started to check my computer and the safest spaces in our house exist in the front of the sentimental novels you will never read. Their prefaces are filled with odes to your gentle hands, the bridge of your nose and that hideously awkward two-step we had to perform at your sisters shotgun wedding. You have always kept me in slippers and coffee and for that I am grateful, but since your promotion, I rattle and pad around this big house and these offensive stanzas have to be given away to those less articulate than myself.
My cards do not sell well, and you think I write poems for birthdays deaths and anniversaries never knowing that other people also disregard my pleas and from your pause in front of the door in the morning to my pen to my editor to their printers to the shelves they sit and wait framed by godawful pictures of forget me nots.