Musings to Someone Possibly Nonexistent

I want to hope you’ll bring the words with you,
tied up in the package of your skin,
your hair being the bow, of course.
But I know that would only leave me where I am currently,
taking metal detectors to past memories in search of scraps of poetry
I might’ve missed the first fifty-two times around,
uncertain as to inspiration and shaky when it comes to suggestions,
falling off of the railroad tracks of every prompt to chase down another image.
Today I wanted to write a love poem,
and I have no one to give it to except you,
fragment of a potential in the future.
I want to hope you’ll bring the words with you,
eyes something other than gemstones and water because I’m tired of irises evaporating
until they can’t find what they saw in me,
voice startling,
understanding stored somewhere in your brain so that I make an amount of sense.
I’ve made you an ideal,
and I want to hope you’ll bring the words with you,
but then they’d be gone when you leave.
I’ll find something,
since you might not even bring yourself;
you might be only a mistranslated dream.

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