“I’d like to write you a letter.” She says her words out loud. It’s about immediate action.
She sits down and stares at her tea. There was no chardonnay in her fridge. The floor keeps getting colder.
“I’d like to write you a letter about something nice.” She picks up a pencil and takes a sip of tea. Her feet cross.
“I’d like to write you a letter about how you never leave my thought.” The eraser is well chewed upon. Nervous habit. Her tea is getting cold.
“I’d like to write you a letter about how much I've been missing you.” Her feet uncross.
Dear You,
“But first I need something to eat.” Out loud again. Commitment. Action.
The sun is shining and she wraps her blanket closer to her body. Freshly fallen snow crunches underneath her feet and some flakes settle onto her hair.
A car runs a red light. The screeching of tires echo through empty alleyways. Her slight frame is struck and the windshield is speckled with blood as her nose smashes to one side and cheekbones crack and split. Teeth settle on the blades of the wipers, legs hang and are crooked from being sucked and dragged underneath the back tires. Three crumbled ribs sit against her lungs, poking through their flesh and muscle, making each and every breath an unwanted labor.
One snow flake still sits between two strands of hair. It never melts and is joined by more and more. Sirens. Commitment. Action.
Dear You,
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