Hey,
I don't know your address.
I hope you never read this.
My therapist says that this is the way to get it all out of my head.
I was under the impression
that writing to someone
ended in burning the evidence.
That it was a kind of healing ritual.
Cleansed by the flames.
But no,
electronic almost-correspondence
appears to be the answer.
Here goes:


I got drunk today.
It seemed like the thing to do.

There was a couch,
it was grey.
Yeah, that one. The red wine stain
is still on the underside
of the cushion cover.

I prefer white.

I sat on the couch.
That's what they're for, couches,
so not much of a surprise, I guess.
But I don't know what to say,
I'm filling the void with
obvious facts.

I didn't even use a wine glass.
I filled a pink mug
full to the top.
Had to sip off the rim of it
so it didn't overflow as I carried it into the sitting room.
With the bottle of wine,
of course.

And I drank.

So I'm drunk now.
I keep laughing.
Of course, I'm not a happy drunk,
but everything is
wrong
anyway.
There's no one around to
tell me to shut up,
for one thing.

Not that I would mind
if there was.
It would fill the silence.

A silence punctuated with
pathetic little
giggles,
as I mentioned before.

I'm not sure what I'm laughing at.
Could be the man outside yelling at his car,
the alarm has been on for an hour now.
Maybe it's the fact
that you took the kettle with you,
and I haven't bought a new one.

I make tea in the microwave now.
Ridiculous.

I don't like you.
Not at all. I don't like the way
that you can't seem to
say anything of importance
and I don't like the way
that your absence
is like

it's like

being stabbed, but that's not enough I feel like I don't have the right to claim that kind of physical pain, I don't feel like I have the right to cry or even walk out my own front door for some reason, and for some reason I was not good enough for you even though neither of us tried our best because we thought we were enough but we weren't and I don't have the words to describe what you are to me, or what you were to me, only that grocery-store sushi used to be that pathetic thing you bought at past-eleven-pm-sometime and now I hate it so much that it's the only thing I can eat and I

I don't need you.

I don't. It's impossible for me to need you,
in the scientific, explainable
rational sense.

But explain it for me,
please.

You are lonely.
So am I.
Let's fill the space between our lips
with words for someone else.
Let's **** until our blood turns blue
from so many gasps for breath.

I'd never seen you cry before.
Odd, now -
odd that there was a time when
I didn't know how you looked
without reddened eyes.
Reddened lips,
parted.

We are left with this.
With, "I love you,"
with, "Yes, please, harder."

With, "God, perfect."
Echoing in the cold space
left by the window being thrown open.
You quit smoking -
(lie)
You just like your time alone -
(lie)
You like it with the lights off  -
(lie)

Padding around the flat,
at two in the morning.
So we can cry by ourself for a change.

"Hello," she said.
It was dark
and the concrete below our feet
was a plateau of acerbic teeth
snapping at us,
compelling us to stay in the ring of light
cast by a streetlamp.
Fear of the unknown keeping us right where we were
together.
Lesser of two evils.

I miss you now.
I didn't then.
In the orange tint of the streetlamp
in the cold.
It was impossible to miss you
so stuck in our ways
our daily comings and goings
our morning
"do-you-want-coffee?"
ritual, two mugs already down
before the question is finished being asked.
I couldn't see.
I couldn't - wouldn't -
look ahead. Into the dark.

Teeth gnashed as we waited for the words to stop.
I looked up at the sky,
somehow seeking comfort in the stars but
now I'm not sure if they were there.
One lone helicopter
piloted, I'm sure, buy someone.
But not a star,
not what I needed.
And I was invisible to them.

Not to you though.
And your words shuddered through my skin
to lodge, like a vicious choking noise
in my bones.
And I miss you now.
But I didn't then.
And when you left,
I couldn't follow,
for fear of the dark.
For fear of the unknown.