I was a good friend, and a bad one. I was a day child, and a night one. It rained and the sun shone, I wasted time on my phone; I was friendly, and I was alone. I was in love, and I was afraid. I shouted hello, I knelt down and prayed. I cried for the dead, I said what I said; I thought about leaving, but I stayed instead.
The last time we met it was raining and the stampede of raindrops on the roof must have made it hard for you to hear. I had wanted to tell you about my mother how I wasn’t yet five feet tall when she was six feet under. Lover, listen. Incurable illnesses cannot recognize the plumpness of an over ripe nectarine from the plumpness of a woman’s breast. And the last time we met I don’t think you heard me say that my name is Amelia because you kept moaning Sarah. Now, lover. I understand the impossibility of moving on but I’ve run out of excuses to make. There’s no Lauren or Patrice just me in these sheets. Lover, please. Pick me.