all day i was thinking
about that letter I wrote
you and how it was in
Wetmore now, in Silvercliffe,
in Jim's green mailbox, finally.
how I didn't seal it in perfume
but thought about it, how I rewrote
it five times because there's only so
many ways to convey myself in a good
light after breaking all the bulbs

I was choosing words like I'd choose flowers
only baby blooms and strong stems,  ending with
sincerely, cordially, then just my name.  I miss you
replaced by I saw that post on Facebook about your niece
hoping prayer sifts through the ink, that he can feel my hair on
his cheeks, a letter that pleads, please don't hate me
but I don't think anyone ever has--and I certainly don't think he will


I don't know what's wrong with me. I tell my mom over breakfast, over dinner, on the way home,  and she smiles at me--says
goodness in the way she usually does, in the way that says her heart
sometimes beats for me

but that thought has permeated every action and every day, lain over me like a sunshower with the rain flecking through in drops of gold
I've never had these thoughts before I whisper, exasperated, throwing
my hands up and stuttering. All-abouts unsure of myself and wondering if while he's been away I've built an empire around what he
could be.

What am I doing? I ask, finally making eye contact.