She found me crumpled up on her way out
from a Sunday night shift.

She picked me up.
She opened me up,
and she read me.

She squinted enough to make out
the hard to read parts. Why?

She inspected me inwardly and out
towards my outer edges.
Torn up, filled with makeup fingerprints,
and a few red lipstick stains of
broken promises.

I was cautious to let her read between
the lines, but her stare was enough to see
right through my smudges.

She cracked a smile.
She had her laugh.
She felt the butterflies inside of her.
She contemplated folding me and keeping me.

And I could feel the warmth of her
fingertips, so I unwrinkled, perked up, and
lost some creases.

It was all there. All that I was.
At least what was left of me.
And I was all hers, without the fear and
all of the hope.

She pulled out a pen and wrote,
"You might be the one."

I took in the ink and I believed it.

A light bulb then went off in her head, and
she remembered the letter
she had been hopelessly waiting for
in her mailbox.

The letter she wasn't sure
would ever come.

With a few more make up stains than before,
and a new cigarette burn, she crumpled me
back up and forgot about me in her purse.

- Hey, you missed the trash can.