Letter to the Thing that Marks Time in my Chest

Dear intermittent constriction beneath the left
side of my ribcage, sometimes you feel bird-
like, and sometimes like a fish in a transparent 
bowl. Sometimes you have the gloss of a ripe 
summer cherry. Sometimes I detect a rough
orange flash, a fin flailing without direction, 
a poorly painted sunset over a broken reef.
Sometimes I wonder if I'd ever have 
the courage to put you under— pull 
the drapes, slide you into an envelope 
and send it away with no return address. 
But at the same time, I don't know 
where to send you, or what I'd do 
in the silence you'd leave behind.