Let me be
your pocket-bound good luck charm.
Brush my face with quaking palms
and hide me away for later;
I’ll be patiently waiting
between denim walls.

Whisper wishes when we’re alone
beneath the lull of the fan.
It’s okay
if you hold on too tightly
because all I want
is to be touched.

I will wait for you to find me
buried in the corner of an attic,
pasted on the sidewalk,
or in the ever-familiar rooms of your life—
until then
you’ll be in my peripherals.