letters

she’s a washed out shade of magenta,
          and i know her like the girlfriend
          of someone i love but never visit.
i pretend she sends me letters, a few
sentences at a time, lack of punctuation,
          run-on, no caps-
a bit of ingenuity to reconstruct meaning
which i’m more than pleased
          to flatter myself about.

and perhaps i wish her to reveal
          in one of those mangled run-ons
          some deep hidden love for me,
          that i am her vibrant cyan.
or perhaps i’ll read from a distance
          as she artfully tries
          to make her mundane seem more… impressive,
          but my sadness only begs melodramatic.

i never respond to the letters, i keep them
ordered nicely enough
in a manila folder buried deep in a cardboard box
centered on the coffee table.

and she doesn’t write anymore.
          they broke up,
          her friend died,
          lesbian now,
          something-anything
to send her letters some place else.

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