vandals

i miss the certainty of us.

the way that we carved our names in picnic tables,

mementos of the defiant proclamations

that we were there, we existed,

we lived loud enough to leave

parts of ourselves behind.

i still marvel at every line etched

somewhere that it shouldn't be.

in the bathroom stalls,

the worn park benches,

the railing of a bridge

overlooking a bustling freeway.

every one of them a piece

of the person who marked it.

the optimistic permanence

of the letters we leave behind.