Artifacts.

2023

I took this self-released branch from your bathroom floor.
I tucked it away somewhere in my journal back in June.

Somehow I knew, like maybe we’ve done this before,
that when I got here in these pages, I’d be discarded by you too.

I wrote “artifacts” the day I found it. The word choice puzzled me at the time.

I get now what I knew.

The way your sturdy branches sway means that by now,
even this plant might be gone to the changing winds of you becoming you.

And you taught me how to adjust my expectations and
tune finely, with an emphasis on quality. All wordless, warm, and timely.

And to say no even when I might want some yes,
because it is emotionally efficient that way.
And much less cluttered. I also value this.

But, it’s not a gift when you give away your trash.
That last sentence is about how you loved me.