If I ever went missing,
my parents could tell the police,
“She leaves behind cups and mugs
stained with her lip-prints
(they're like fingerprints,
but instead of DNA
you’ll find swirling moons
of glossy brown, matte pink, creamy red),
and they circle the rims
as if marking the territory as hers,
all hers.”
If I ever went missing,
my parents could tell the police,
“She leaves behind petals
from roses, daisies, and dandelions,
their dewy hearts
forming a trail of beauty.
And even though some people
see them as weeds,
she always knows that
they are worth so much more,
and from her love comes a trail
of their broken bodies.”
If I ever went missing,
my parents could tell the police,
“She collects words like stamps,
trying to find one of every
shape, size, color, place, feeling,
and will only be happy
once she has them all,
and can proudly say,
‘Look at the words I’ve found.
Aren’t they magnificent?’”
If you find a trail of words,
scattered with petals and mugs
(stained with gloss, of course),
tell the police at the other end
that I am waiting to be found.
