Like Playing Cards and Other Things

Little things I cannot tell you sometimes

almost come out in the strangest

of ways, like when I forgot to send a text

that said: I’m afraid that the closet

door won’t close because there’s still

a ghost inside it. Or when I typed

to you that I liked to eat

cocoa puffs when they are more than slightly

soggy only to find you’d gone

offline. Or when I wrote you a postcard,

unstamped, which stated simply: I miss

the sound of the ocean in my dreams,

the one whose waves rolled backwards

and into the edge of the sky. Or when

I called your disconnected number and

sang the chorus to the song you kept

getting caught in my head, the words

lodged in my throat like a chip of

ice drunk down before it could melt. Or

when I finally say to no one that I

still can’t stop missing you and I still

can’t stop the way that I can’t

tell you anything at all.

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