The last 3 letters of the spring

I will eventually leave
I will pack my bags, yes, the plants too, all the russian dolls
and the hand written letters
nothing screams like heartache as ferocious as a birthday card:

the evidence of a life unknown—all I wanted was to be noticed 

if you had failed to know me
you should have just said so
I would have packed my bags early
yes, the yellow flowers too
nothing screams like enmity as plainly as an empty vase
I now, darling, know, nothing screams like loss as lousy as a called off chase 
an easy street paving the way for greatness, unless you are doing the tracing, then it’s all downhill from there

I will eventually leave
trust me, I will
Don't you think I won’t! I will gather all my strength and “try again”
like it never happened
and this is the first time I write something heartfelt and dramatic,
these being the first words:

all I wanted was to be the poem
…
at least once 

even now
scrawling these lines
catching glimpses in windows with no one to bear witness

all I ever wanted was to be reached for 

looking back at the time 
when
you were mine 
and I was typing some rhymes
unnamed, not yet read
in a language too foreign 
too lonely 

put down the 3 letter violence: ”shall we rename this as [MY]—poem?” 

I will eventually stop
carrying all this baggage 

no note to bear witness

“Will you take care of my plants while I am gone?” what a gratuitous service
It’s my poem! It always has been.