Perhaps

the little elephant that had made itself at home on my heart
has been making its trek back to wherever it came from
i imagine the dusty, dark jungles of heartache and death

perhaps that’s where your words lie, too
those words that sent out invitations
it’s funny how those invitations always led to an empty house
perhaps that was hint number one or two or fifteen

free of this elephant and free of your words,
i can finally feel myself breathe again
i’ve thrown out the question marks that my pockets carried
i’ve retired the bow that would shoot them your way
how much easier it is to travel with lighter pockets

and you are right,
perhaps i am a great writer
i am a great writer because of all the elephants you have sent my way

bandaging wounds is leading to betterment these days
there is such a contradiction in heartache