The Map

I stand with a treasure map, no X to mark the spot. A scattering of clues, roadmaps of endless dots. Your name is on an envelope, surely that’s proof enough? But it’s faded, invisible ink, a hollow past calling my bluff. I search drawers for clothing and scour shelves for books. Trace desks for fingerprints, scroll through snapshots for looks between us, you and me - that one I swear you took by the lake. Rain clouds forming behind my head like dirty Papier-mâché, a grey fake. I stand with the treasure map, aged in spilt argument coffees and tea. Scribbles of forests and mountains, a cabin, a cliff edge. Pebble beach and sea. I stand with this treasure map searching for a hint, that you were here and I was loved: for just a shimmer of gold, the faintest glint.