(cliché)

lights in my eyes
a ribbon unfurls at the glance of my
fingertips
and writhes in my
palm
i hold it tight against my chest afraid
to let it go.

i press my hopes into ink and
words and
pages like
pressing wildflowers
in oxford dictionaries
and in a
beloved collection of anne sexton's poetry

(a silent lament for what
isn't real)

this is for you.