By Casey Young 

“The name sounds like a dream.”

The first words that fall from the paper as my shaking hands allow them to tremble to the floor

It was the first time in months I’ve pulled your letter from the box beneath my bed

As if I had left them any longer, maybe you’d somehow seep through my box spring and find yourself next to me, again

Your arms holding the intention of shelter and your smile posing as one of the only homes I have ever known

Writing me into your poetry as your words became my walls and the cadence of your voice, the soft fireplace

A feeling only we could know

A place tucked between our stories to hide under blanket forts with flashlights to keep the darkness from creeping in

Where the world would not have touched us, had we allowed it

We allowed it

A tear smearing the ink from your flow pen

The same pen, presumably, I signed my name with in the back of your pocket notebook so that you could take a piece of me with you

The only piece I’m sure you think you have

But for tonight, I’ll fold you back up

The last words you ever wrote to me branding themselves into my skin

“Be well.”

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