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I let myself be caught by your corners
where I sit next to the doll you lost in second grade
and the confetti from New Year's Eve circa 1999.

There's only kindness from the forgotten,
lade with appreciation for recognition of a smile
from the shell-self you're giving out now,
who mumbles words and phrases on repeat
hoping nobody notices.

Oneiric musings let my minutes slowly pass
until you pass
and we hold our breath,
the doll, the confetti, the dust, and I,
to see.

What I wouldn't give to know what you thought of me then
if you thought of me then
when
your clouds were cotton candy and the Seine
was warmed sugar butter and you bothered to lend
out your paperclips to make art instead of words.

Trace me wantonly and burn your calendar until messages are optional and impermanent.