The ex (like how we use that distancing language, that lack of naming names, that objectification?), anyway the ex sends me notes of music strummed on spider-silk strings, the hollow blow of his mouth to a holed reed. I hear the fingerprints on his middle finger, the scar on his thumb, the edge of his mouth where the skin
peels away. You’d think they would sound like sadness, but they sound like howler monkeys on the roof of a tiny shed in costa rica. They sound like the wet sheets when I kept waking up saying, “what’s that? what’s that?” and the other ex (now they are things, multiple things that one might collect and put on shelves and
give names to), that ex kept saying, “It’s just trucks on the highway.” Except there were no roads for a hundred and seven miles, only trees and trees and huts and oceans and us. This ex (the new one, the recent one, the most current of the exes)
he sends me notes. Not on paper. Just written in the sounds of his sighs at night.
If I believed in God, I’d think he wanted to tell me something. Like, listen. Maybe. Or don’t listen. I can’t really tell. I open canning jars on the window sills, let the notes settle into them like fireflies. I close the lids to watch them flare bright as love and then settle into a slow silence. Like a swan singing its final song.
Like a girl in a kitchen alone, holding invisible cages, inhaling the tempo of death.
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written at the coffee shop.
Time Taken 7 minutes.
Brain on mocha and peanut butter rice crispy bar. Mmm.