This was going to be a poem about the strange vestige of inquiry romance
leaves in its wake after the last echo of its footsteps quits the room.
I wanted to say something about that slim reed of wishful thinking, the lotto dance
we play no matter that the story headed south so long ago. But there’s certain doom
in pulling that card over and over again, a resistance – futile – against the turning
of an irreversible tide. I don’t want to be that narrator, paralyzed by a hope
that never finds its legs. No. So instead, I will tell you about the small note adorning
a package my friend sent cross-country. “Hello Lovely,” it began, and the scope
of those two words surpassed the filmy ripple loss had stranded. It wasn’t just another
name for mine, but a greeting for a life coming into view, a promise I could truly claim.