I can't picture us in Santa Monica
With our little apartment and our bikes that you bought for us
And a **** on the table, and TIME magazine.


I can't see your travels displayed in our hallway
next to the pictures I never took
the sheets on our bed neater on one side than the other.


I can see a world without you as my friend,
all gray and distorted,
and I don't smile as much but work is hard...


But I can't see us watching a movie together
your hand on my arm
making circles with your fingers and my skin electric.

This is to you, my love.
My former love.
I burned your letter today.
I held it for one year and ten months.
Today I burned it in the sink, and the smoke
made my eyes water.
I didn't know how I was to feel but I felt...
Determined.
Burning it may have meant nothing, may have brought nothing
or withheld nothing....
but it felt freeing
and I am drinking that feeling, now, always, as much as I can swallow.

I am free, and I am not mad.
I am free, and I am not mad at you, at all.

My broken bones
In a decorative vase
In New York City’s living room.
What an honour it is to be
Misunderstood.
A tragedy, oh.
Look at the way her femur is cracked.
The pain she must have felt! To have
Tasted an ounce of it, I’d never
Understand.
And the pictures are taken
And the young boys don’t “get it”
And the girls laugh at their ignorance, as they themselves
Struggle for definitions.
But I am enigmatic.
My bones have no story.
My bones can be yours.