You’d leave yellow Post-It notes for me to find
after your flight had carried you home—
little love letters stuck on the inside of cabinet doors or
nestled in kitchen drawers among spatulas and forks.
One slipped off the shower wall and landed in the tub,
a soggy, seven-word fantasy of the next time we’d fuck.
One hidden in a copy of My Lesbian Husband;
“This book,” you said, “Reminds me of us.”
Another tenderly tucked into my bed, under a pillow,
perfectly placed in the spot where my arm cradled your head.
Weeks after you left for the last time, I stumbled upon
a yellow landmine, unnoticed under a paperweight on my desk.
Did you mean those three words the final time you wrote them
or did you already know your feelings were flying away, too?