Scattered pieces,

paper planes headed south:

all the letters I wrote but never sent you,

invocations of your presence through chants

and the dance back-and-forth 

across my room, working out the drafts.

I’ve sat around writing you postcards

about a street corner in Mexico,

where over coffee a cat from the bushes

crept over and asked me of your whereabouts.

I’ve written to you about my friend the baker,

the beautiful strangers,

and the jacarandas in March.

Somewhere in there you’ll find Bogotá,

a meadow in Pesca,

and our little apartment with a view.

Don’t you see that I’ve run

my bare feet five times around the earth,

myself ragged, wordless, and dumb

to find my way back to you?

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Noah Geffroyd is a writer and independent journalist based in Montreal. You can check out his work at noahgeff.hotglue.me, and check him out at @noshgeffroyd on Instagram.