I can't write for you anymore.
Yes, I have hundreds of loosely scrawled letters written, typed, stored in one or three or five of the books I've taken over five years in a milk crate from city to state to small town and back again.
Yes, it took me an arm, a leg and a misguided rebound to get over you
But alas, here we are.
Yes, I know you won't miss me - though I know at one point you did care
But it's time for us to say goodbye.
I will dot the period, not the semicolon
(like you did a million years ago)
Seal the last letter with a smile
And never turn back.
Not until my teens ask me, "Mama, who were you before the world broke its promises?"
Will I pull out the milk crate
Filled with loosely scrawled letters written, typed, stored
And talk about the curly-haired blonde boy who first broke my heart.