60/365: Always That Girl

I wish you would write me a letter
on paper with a pen
like when we were kids in the summer,
and you would tell me about your cousins,
and you would put a leaf in it
that would dry and crumble
years later when I reopened it
to see what we did in 1983.

I wish you would write me a letter
and spill your tea on it now,
and leave the stains at the edges
so I could pretend I was there when you wrote it
and smell the spots for a hint
of what it was that you drank.
I would scent mine with coffee grounds
and a greasy smear of peanut butter.

I wish you would write me anything at all
so I could know you were alive
and playing songs on a houseboat
or living near a forest
or even walking your dog
that you bought for the kid
you maybe had with your wife.

The older I get
the more I want these conversations.
All my histories are newer and newer.
I thought they would fade,
but age is a macro lens,
and you never left,
or you, or you, or you.
We all sail together
in the dream of what happened,
and I am always that girl in a blues bar
smoking by a window
waiting for a man to come
with nine dollars and a pitcher of beer.

#365poems at Schmutzie.com

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