I once wrote a love letter to a woman
I thought I loved
it was a beautiful thing, this letter, it began
at the beginning looped through the end
and back to the beginning a perfect
circle, then, or maybe a figure of eight
a beautiful thing, as I said, this letter I wrote
to a woman I thought I loved
but didn’t send
because things happen that cause stars to move,
worlds to shift on their axis and list in orbit
tiny things in faraway places to which nobody
pays any mind until it’s all too late
like the weight of dust gathering on childhood
toys in a cupboard under the stairs.