Your letter arrived today. Maple leaves stuck to my shoe.

I said, my ghosts, my ghosts. Again in the bath, sang about fields, opened things up just to shut them out again.

What did you do when everyone went silent, when your ear wouldn’t stop ringing?

My ghosts, my ghosts. I wait. Nothing passes by the window.

If I held my stomach, if I dug my nails into sides, would I lift somewhere toward you? Would the corner hold your shape? I ran out of wine.

My arm, half in bubbles, extended to you.

It’s been months. Sometimes, when I touch myself, I stare at the bare light bulb.

Maybe the walls will melt together. Maybe I’ll eat less, feel lighter, get a buzz.

Today, I walked until my feet hurt. I held the rock in my purse, curled my hand into a fist. Knew you wouldn’t speak. Knew the sky wouldn’t reveal you.

When I wrote “God, speak to me” I meant that my body was a mess. That the order of things was changing. That I couldn’t stop repeating the number seven. That eight swirled around like jellyfish above my head.

The pages spill into the bath with me. Your words blur into my midsection.

I make up the letters. I seal you at night, whisper imaginings, small tulips, under my sheets.

No wonder you’re silent.

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