Well, look at that. What are the chances?

I wrote you into a poem.

Hold it to your ear for the ocean air trapped inside to tell you everything I can’t.

And yes, I put you into the paint too.

Hold them up to the light and watch the embryos growing inside, big alien eyes with thick heart beats.

I wonder after you.

Isn’t it silly–after all we’ve been through–that I don’t know your name.

What are we doing with all this time

we don’t spend making the mundane momentous?