I tap —
backspace seven times,
an email I said I
would not send and I am
here, in front of a computer
listening to music that
only reminds me of
you.
I flit —
I flow from one
word to the next.
there is no calming of
nerves
no antidote suitable
enough to render me
settled.
rice is bubbling,
broccoli roaring in the pot
turkey wings sizzling with
sweet potatoes, still I
backspace… tap — flit — start
and stop all over again.
I am not here.
I watch each word appear,
letter by letter
every thought is centered around
a looming memory.
my “E” key is stuck,
I strike it back to life.
I can’t have it dying
on me.
not now.
not today.
I am amusing myself,
you see?
This is a great space,
in between theories and spoons
and matrixes and moons.
And I convince myself
that these are not words
and there was no us
and this is not a letter
so it is not real.
None of it.
But it was, wasn’t it?
The archives have more
than their share of drafts —
this one, though.
it’s finally finished.
but I flag the
send button from sight
too afraid to commit
these words to a pair
of eyes that spent the
last nine months
forgetting what I look
like.
Originally published on September 10, 2017, via Medium.
