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They can tell you are sad.
But even your tears don’t know you.
You are obsessed with yourself and care
who hears you but you care
a little too much about yourself so no one
hears. The pebbles in the bottom
of the yard waste bag never heard you
when your voice carried outside.
Even your thick hair, now being swept up,
never listened to anything you said.
Your fingernail cuttings lost under miles of trash
had a chance to know you.
You put your lips on them. They didn’t care.
None of the things you miss miss you.
We assume the world notices us
but the world doesn’t notice us.
Even the forgetting isn’t real—they didn’t
know you at all. People pretended to listen.
Not many cared. Not even some.
Heaven isn’t for things, but things, even things
want to get out of here. And you can’t come.
