Dear Ms. Fox:
It's been two years after
the fact
when I sat in the
tweed chair across from you
in that child's room
I don't remember how I looked.
It’s important, for I am only
one still shot to the next-
existing.
Perhaps I was well put together
although that's doubtful
knowing me and the colder months
November comes and I forget
lipstick
the attributes of
kept flesh.
Would you believe I still exist?
Nothing has changed.
I am here again, dulled again
face gray as the sky.
I remember you, too:
the retired hair,
the tight eyes of a hobby artist
clasping hands
I see your wedding ring.
I notice things like that on others
the signs of perhaps
happiness
I try to bask in it for a
moment like sun, like heat
soak it into myself.
You never fed me promises
that I would one day get better
just advice to rethink
my decision to stay
But you know, I am still here
not much has changed, beyond the
denial of loss, the faked stories
of reunion one day
I could attest to the daytrips
the loneliness,
that feeling of laying under sheets
and skin again
keep this feeling forever, you tell yourself
and I do.
Often.
If I told you these two years
have been my best
would you believe me?
My life keeps improving
despite everything.
Dear Ms. Fox:
hope you are well.
