Paper Love

I place his hand-drawn cartoon on the wall.

This is called strange love.

Taped with a piece of him to my memory,

like archaic insects calcified in amber,

in permanence.

It is rendered with pencil,

as if in some silly 2-D world,

stipplings of stubble

on the gentleman’s

five o’clock shadow

call out for a giggle

or at least

a raised eyebrow.

I have plans for these characters,

(10 in all).

I will not let them slip from my sight,

to scurry down the textured walls and

lose themselves in dust,

floor cracks, soda spills,

and mischief.

I won’t fold them either when

Summer comes, overexposing them

through slits in my blinds’ slats,

and he

parts from my side like an appendix,

like my mirror image cracked

to bits.

And if anyone is worried about how

the drawings ripped at the fringes,

eaten away at the edges

like sunburnt clouds,

I’ll tell them my pet rat Timicka

scratched them down from Heaven

when I wasn’t looking.


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