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?