Dec 21, 2018
i don’t think of you anymore. or rather, i don’t think of you often, and never fondly. mostly perversely, wondering who you have become, whether you are still alive. whether you are happier than you were before. but here i am, writing. not to you, but about you, and maybe that is your last laugh. your triumph, brown eyes, sharp light, soft mouth like a crow, always cawing, cawing.
mostly i am sorry about you, but not sorry enough to do anything about you. i wonder if you heard that i was leaving. but i have left you already, and now, i think, you are leaving me too.
