Post It Notes (from the Separation Couplets)

I wish I had kept the Post It notes.

I have six dreadlocks, saved from the pile.
You cut off the cause. Kept the vanity.

I have the songs you wrote in my notebooks
when you couldn't find yours. No love songs.

I have two microphones and a speaker, a box
of unsold CDs and your tip jar. I wish I had

your voice. I could make a living with
your leftovers. I hope I told you enough

how beautiful you are. And that I always
was a sucker for your word play. But mostly,

I wish I had kept the post it notes.
The scrawled messages and kisses.

Baby, I need 20 dollars for diapers.
Leave it on the table by the door.

Baby, there's two sandwiches in the fridge.
I left the tomatoes off this time.

Baby, I'm sorry about last night.
I was so tired. I'll make it up to you.

The swing set of days and limp lettuce
exchanges is what I miss the most.

The stageless promise that you
would read the notes in the morning

and you would walk through
the door with a kiss at night.


© lauren zuniga