and sometimes it is because the words dry up on my tongue
and sometimes it is because I do not know how to say it

more than often I do not write
because I am afraid.

Dear
Lacey,
I should tell you how much
I hate your name.
too close to that ringing moniker of the dead girl in Colorado.
I didn't see you in her
didn't see anyone
and of course she wasn't more than a face laid out in
ink on a page
set to dry like I'd never said a word to her
of course.
I'd be a fool to think
that you have anything to do with
that look on in her eyes when they slammed her to a wall took out a gun and

of course you didn't know, I'm just a poor soul
looking for a living on the streets, don't think I'm one to
jump to conclusions.

Dear La
cey
my fingers hurt to type,
I don't want to talk to you, it might
trigger, you know.
People sometimes say I have
problems with other people.
please forget my number tomorrow.
and the next day and the one after
that.

L,
I leave this note on the hood of your car, you'll see it
before you drive away
don't look for me
I have a gun for you if
you do.

metal cools and hots, Lacey, your name is Lacey
and I cry to you.

[it happened on a sun-cracked highway at 65 mph]

when the house creaks from falling icicles
and the snow has been scraped from the driveway far too many times
that is when we sludge upstairs in our layers of greying sweaters
that is when we take out the box of summer vacation photos.

in them the grass is thick and deliciously green
and red squirrels belly up to new branches swaying above our heads
and we touch these beautiful things to our red and chapping noses.

and then I swear
just a bit of cool summer air
floats out
and lends a bit of sun to the midwinter.

there was a record spinning music slow
and a rusty alley-cat voice from the 'phone
on this dead city night in detroit.

[he made me stop]

[my chair broke underneath me]

[nobody can really sing in a place like this]

—my voice was cowardly.

always someone there
to look at rainbows with
at midnight.