A dense, obscure little longing
that used to be folded,
smushed,
packed tightly in on itself like
one of those tooth-
sized caramel candies,
sweet and bitter
and burnt, gradually
melted in you,
dissolved
or unfolded—
like the wrapper it was packed in.
And that wrapper came
stamped with
a short message,
but the tin
foil—was glinting
too silvery
in the light that afternoon,
and it blew off
with the wind's lightest flutter—
and you had
no idea
what the message said,
but you reasoned
that it was
yours, and so
you had
to say
Yes to it.
And even though
this is a metaphor—
not something
that actually
happened to you—
you have nevertheless
ever since
based your entire life
on the memory.
