I Don’t Send Christmas Cards To You Anymore

Photo by Jenny Smith via ReShot

An Audio Poem

I don’t send Christmas
cards to you anymore
and while that may not
be a thing to share with
others for many people,
it is something I think about.
eighteen years of celebrations
and laughing and love and gifts
and . . . and . . . every fucking thing
else and now . . . nothing.

I walked away from a vehicle
that was a financial burden
when the price was right
and I thought immediately after,
“This is something _______ would
do, not me.” but, there I was,
nodding to the rhythm of the
words coming out of the
sales associate’s mouth. 
I took my check and ran.

the dog buries herself in
my lap, nesting painfully–
my thighs have scratch marks
failing to heal.
I spoil her. 
she can have her way.
hers is a pain I don’t mind.

I set myself up, Shutterfly’d
customized holiday cards with
my smiling face plastered on
the front — the dog, wearied and
bothered on the back.
this is our way of
being present in a time
where place is no longer
tangible — I can’t touch it.
I can’t get to it.

I’ve spent these last two years
secretly weeping over a woman
who has yet to call me
to ask me to return.
how egoistic of me — how
traditionally insufficient. 
but I said it. I admit it.
shouldn’t this count for something?

winter is spinning around
the lonely souls — blanketing
us with past loves and reminding
the willowed bones of
their frailty. what would I
say if I heard your voice today?
how would I react?

who knows? who knows?
I just know it’s one more year
of no Christmas card to you
and no redemption for me
and that . . . still hurts
when it’s not supposed to — 
not anymore.

Originally published in The Junction via Medium.