Over and over last Friday
I traced your words
with my fingertips,
rearranging them
to spell new sentences.
In your language
maybe Love and Sorry
are direct translations.
But I can’t find the answer key.
Today I filed them away
into cardboard boxes of Memory.
My hands flipped through
color coded manila folders.
Dog-eared, fresh, dusty, new.
Finally I paused at one,
You.
The label, a loopy red
question mark against
the dark hues.