Here.
It’s that card you made for my birthday two years ago,
you say in a snap to me.

Funny.
I remember seeing it on your bedroom floor after I left one drizzly, confusing morning (there was only ever allowed to be one).

Weird.
I wanted to slip it into my bag and then into the bin to make it forgotten. Felt easier done than said.

Instead
I left it there, slid into the grey haze of Sunday. Figured it would find its own way out.

It's
a cut-out from a coaster I found at a Cuban bar - a guy in a turmeric jacket playing the guitar. You still have that, I ask?

Yeah,
You say, I do. Write me words and I’ll keep them forever.