See Also Page Twenty-One

I thumb through the index of my life and there is no “love” under “L”— only “lust” and “lost.” I worry that you weren’t there in my pages and the thin sheets slice my thumb as I flip to “A” and “B,” but there is only “alone” and “broken,” as in “promises” by an asterisk. Then I find you— never your name or a note marginally— but in the alone of lost and the broken of lust and the bloodstain from my thumb on page twenty-one.