I was cold and pulled my sweater in, in against the body that was no longer my own. You sent me e-mail, of which I opened and read systematically; first to last, and over–yet again.
An endless stream of Bukowski poured forth from the computer screen as if it had been written specifically for me–when really, it belonged to some other woman, long since deceased, who presumably never realized the luxury of knowing someone loved (or hated) her so much.

I shook inside myself. Feeling rather disenchanted, I pulled the cap off the pill bottle and swallowed…waiting for the haze, the liberation, the feeling of letting go.

A summer since you left me.

A desert, an ocean, a mountaintop away…

I stood in center of the universe

waiting…

waiting….

F