it sits on the couch beside me
it seems important
her careful letters
spelling out the name
she used to say
with such
tenderness in her voice

curious
but not that
curious
my eyes return to it
over and over

it could be anything
really

it could be an apology

(no chance)

it could be a wedding invitation

(no thanks)

it could be anything
really

she sprayed a bit of her
perfume
on it
could not tell you the name of it
but it smells
wonderful
like long days spent in bed
like her lips
all over my face

now
as the fan spins
and the room begins
to regain
her scent

gives me a headache
in my chest

some

(stupid)

part of my brain
thinks she is here
because that scent
mixed with aching sorrow reminds me
of when she was

she wrote me a letter today
but
i am not going to open it
the post mark shows irving
could be anywhere
i imagine

maybe
i will read it tomorrow
maybe
i will just toss it out

i don’t know