of certain silly things

I do not believe in superstition, but
Every week since I grew fond of you
I count mynahs and petals.

For as long as you live
in a tiny cottage in a mossy crevice
of my heart, I pray

I pray every time you sneeze
let it be thrice,
let it be thrice.
For then, you might need.

The day you leave, I am sure,
A thousand dark witch moths
will fling themselves at my door.
They will crash violently, over and over,

as my heart mimics them on the other side
of the rebuffed door that closed, a door that
will not open to the sound
of another stumbler ever again.

But until then, I hope.
Until then, my door holds itself open.

And until then, I make sure I have
A piece of red string, everywhere I go,
hoping I run into you on a street

somewhere in the world,
sometime in my life

So I can hear my gut and its feeling
chuckle softly, fondly, as I tie it
one end hugging your finger
the other clinging to mine.

Every time I smile at your voice
I reach to touch the nearest wooden table
for to have known you is
the burliest stroke of luck I will ever have had.

I do not believe in silly things
yet, sometimes I catch myself
staring at the telephone,
reciting your name in my head

believing feverishly, childishly,
that, that will embarrass the phone
into ringing with the sound of you
wanting to knock on tables with me.