Who did you come from, little lovebear?
What did you mean before I found you,
wedged in the sofa bed, face down and flat,
lying with the dust and crumbs?

“I love you this much”, your shirt said,
stuffed arms stretched to full extent,
proclaiming the breadth of someone else’s love.

I thought you sad, little lovebear,
forgotten by the world above.
Abandoned by chance, or careless circumstance,
leaving me to piece you together,
and understand your muteness.

Tell me, little lovebear:
whose history do you carry
in between those outstretched arms?
What library of scents, sights, and sounds?

Were those soft arms clutched,
and harboured on the chest,
in the morning of a half-empty bed?

Or did they encompass reminders,
and uncertain silences?

I’ll understand you
by the thread of my inferences.
Through my own libraries built
on similar ground.


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