I know it won’t be read

or understood. The text will sit

in your inbox like a Jack

in the Box. Only no puppet will appear.

Later. Ever. Have you grown used to it?

Not reading between lines that will never reach

you. Not having a body. In a tiny text,

making out like you’re three doors down, I write

to tell you all you’re missing, waiting

for you to respond. Come here, I hear you say,

it’s alright. Don’t be so quick to want for it

to be over. Which is to say, I want to scream

How dare you. Three syllables spewing

lava from the back of my throat.

I am so tired … I want to believe them

when they say: There Is So Much Good.

Everything’s Fine. It Gets Easier. You’ve Been

Through So Much. I want to believe them.

In thirty minutes from now, I will count the bottles

of champagne you left to expire in the bar fridge

wishing to God I had a drinking problem.

Can you feel the warmth of your son’s lips scrape your cheek?

Or your daughter’s tears in your hand at the hospital bed?

Two birthdays, yours—been and gone.

How the colour has returned to your face …

You’ve regained weight … Returned the rope to the shed …

Close the blinds, would you. It’s too bright outside.

Your eyes roll … a black clock shimmies on a white wall.

Tick, tock … Remember, you said, I’m too smart

for all that. I said nothing, only thought, I’m so stupid.

April … It’s here, again. How bright those city lights shone.