one in the morning.  i’m on the second bottle of cheap red wine & am smoking my third cigarette in the last hour.  fourth time writing you a letter.  so far, there are only five words on the page: why did you ******* leave? in six hours, my mother’s shrill alarm will rouse her & she’ll come to my bedroom to ask why i’m awake so early.  i won’t mention why it’s seven in the morning & i haven’t fallen asleep yet because that sort of thinking only leads back to you.  there are eight razorblades remaining in the package beneath my mattress.  now, i have nine gashes on my wrist, nine more good reasons i still need you.  it’s been ten days since you hung up the phone & left me to wallow in empty static.  eleven since i whispered my first “i love you” in your ear.  the clock on my wall hits all twelve numbers twice a day, same as always even though time has lost all semblance of meaning.  here’s the deal: i’ll you give you thirteen more unlucky days to come back to me, but if you’ve left for good, i’m gone.