If I ever went missing,

my parents could tell the police:

she leaves behind cups and mugs

stained with her lip-prints

(they’re like fingerprints,

but instead of DNA you find

swirly moons

made of glossy

brown, matte pink, creamy red,

and they circle the rims

as if marking their territory as hers,

all hers.)

If I ever went missing,

my parents could tell the police:

she leaves behind petals

from roses, daisies and

dandelions,

their dewy hearts forming

a trail of beauty,

and even though some people

see them as weeds,

she always knew that

they were worth so much more,

and from her love

came a trail of their

broken bodies.

If I ever went missing,

my parents could tell the police:

she collects words like stamps,

trying to find one of every

shape, size, color, place, feeling,

and will only be happy

once she has them all

and can proudly say,

“Look at the words I found.

Aren’t they magnificent?”

If you find a trail of words,

scattered with petals and mugs

(stained with gloss, of course)

tell the police at the other end,

I am waiting to be found.