i take pieces of us,
of you, of me,
and i tuck them
between couch cushions,
into empty cigarette packs,
amongst sheets stuffed
into the crack between
bed and wall

i hide them in places
meant to be found

i'm not planning on
losing us,
on losing you, on losing me,
but,
there are times
when i'm unsure
of what to do
with the pieces