wild loves

I keep slipping postcards and words

into the notebook I will never send you.

It is a thick purple, and has leaves hidden

inside the paper. I trace over them listlessly.

It was not as though I called you daily

when you were around. Somehow knowing

that you existed, in a kurta and bindi, wild hair

falling over your wild smile, was enough.

Love is never enough, that’s the thing.

I keep trying to slip you into boxes

you don’t understand and don’t need.

Your words are dim stars in my eyes.

I miss you wildly, but not desperately.

I do not need to call. You still exist, if

even farther than before. It should be 

enough. Love should be enough.