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I found him today. I took him out and examined him, caressed him and held him. Wondering the whole time why it wasn’t brittle and sore, so perfectly pampered in my pink pajama shorts. It was no one else but his, like a soldier’s insignia and a Picasso’s fingerprint. I wondered if it was happy to see me and how soft my fingers’ skin felt on it. I pressed the gray stolen fabric softened shirt to my face, wanting so very badly to see him. Why had it kamikaze into my world and how did it feel having survived 14 days of solitary only to be discovered by my emotional weighted eye? I don’t think it got the memo that it’s no longer a spy in this volatile land of mine. I wished it were an omen. Doesn’t the game feel so lame; everyone and everything is easy to blame. It’s always the same stranger just a different name. Ain’t you tired of traveling? Flying solo, sing songing, it will come around tomorrow? One more notch on your wall for your birthday one more on mine for spring solstice and what will it all mean? One more female on the verge of a nervous breakdown; the cartoon said they are all that way. I blew the hair off and vacuumed it, tossed the shirt, all the while singing happy birthday to him, keep on recovery to me. Love is as wishy washy as me, funny though, never thought faith would be stronger than sin.