I am starting a collection:
the beginning of all the nice things
that you have said to me.
I want to put into old pasta sauce jars
the golden light on apartment windows,
which you pointed out as beautiful,
and your words painted in blue.
The battered ways of saying I love you.
I want to trace every one of your laughs
and hang them up in a gallery,
and I want to display the raised eyebrows
and warm hugs in which you linger—
slowly, not hurrying to get anywhere,
not rushing to leave me.