Yet another letter to the her that never existed:
It’s New Years Eve,
and I have no idea where you are.
There are faint firework sounds echoing down the alleyway
where we first kissed in a cinematic rain.
So many memories in a whiff of invented perfume
that’s still holding tightly to my pillow.
That old sinking feeling is beginning again
as I pace from the bedroom to the couch.
The apartment is empty, quiet
save for the light tapping of computer keys,
and the gentle whirring of the space heater I got
to keep you from getting too cold,
when I was the one who wasn’t here.