a letter

(1)

I watch the parking lots. At one point I framed them with some nostalgic value but these days they are simply the security of florescent concrete draped in moonlight, twisted illusions of solitude.

I have never seen nature fall upon something so plain.

Pink clouds line trees and housetops but

many nights it is impossible to see beyond the concrete

I am desperate for something factual.

(2)

I’m sorry I didn’t know. I’m sorry

I tried to fix it with copious amounts of

white cheese pizza as though I could convince you of

undeniable truths long since faded. I’m sorry your hips cracked open that day. I cursed your crutches and prayed flowers would grow like in the fractures of concrete and you

would be healed.

These days I’ve learned that when anorexia plays,

she plays for keeps. Your bones were collateral damage while

my heart beats too fast and too slow. Do you remember

baking cookies on Thursday nights? We ate every one and

I wish at the time someone had whispered,

“This is freedom.”

(3)

I hope Paris is beautiful.

I hope you still run mazes across cement rooftops and make love under shadows because

God knows you deserve that. They say time is the mind’s

creation and I often wonder if we layered our

memories on top of one another they would all

make sense. We would lie on top of parking structures

and feel the cold concrete under our

fingertips so as to know

We are here. This is today and the next day and

this is the moon that shines upon the city

just for us.

2013