Once, all I saw were train-tracks the way falling dust
looks like tiny sprites pirouetting in midair.

That is what I recreated every time
he could not walk from the loading port into me,
sparkles in a cardboard box for Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries
crowding like fairies and lightning bugs during summer.

Just like it.
Three years ago, my hair was shorter and it could not
get knotted in razorblade patterns:

your hair was longer then, we added all of our strands together
and decided it is all very equal now.
You can rope me to train-tracks and wait to pick me up,
until then, I am an insect fossilized in amber
my body is the shape of a soapbar, my consistency hot wax.  

Sometimes the train comes by
without me even realizing the time is 12:53am.

Sometimes it is 4:08am, so I ask why you have not arrived.

You have had two hundred cups of tea since I
last tasted you, and every single one was a gift from me in
one of those containers packed with glittering beads.
The bottom of your mug holds herbs floating like sprites in midair.

Just like them.
Sometimes at 1:44am I think I am the same
flying by wing to you.