White nights are just outside.
It should only be weeks now-
maybe days-
before the letter arrives.
The one you said you'd write when
the time felt right. I haven't heard since
July, how are you feeling? Are you
feeling alright? That pain in your
neck, did that go away?

The steps to my den are covered in
salt. I slipped and nearly fell, still,
in the light of the night. The floral
chair you used to covet, nights you'd lay in
slumber under covers, sleeps near the
desk where I type. I hung christmas lights
everywhere. I mean everywhere.
Even around my arms, legs, and
stomach. The mailbox and the antlers of a
sleeping deer in the backyard forest.

I found a map of Michigan and
circled all the towns with names that
began with vowels. I'd like to
drive through them all. There's
something about small towns in
Michigan that begin with vowels that
just makes me want to drive through them
all on white, wintry, November nights.

The doorstep in Minnesota, where you
wept and held dearly to your can of
cola-It was frozen when you got up to
go inside. That was the day that
Kennedy got shot, but years and
years later. People still celebrate, or,
commemorate, hang ribbons and
balloons. It was my birthday,
and no one came but you.

A ghost walks me home. If I stop
breathing from my mouth he
leaves me alone. His name is
something that you'd name a ghost.
He drinks blue moon and plays
scrabble real well.

I mailed you postage stamps in case
that's what was keeping you from sending your
letter. If not, sorry, and enjoy the
postage stamps.
Last edited by rushmore at Oct 19, 2011,