googled your name again to see if you're still alive. i’ve moved states twice but the bullet hole always ends up back in the front door. when a balloon popped next to the produce aisle i hit the floor, grapes spilling all around me like pearls snatched off a neck. give 'em enough time and most improbable things will happen; i was driving to joe's to give him the drugs when i saw our toddler wandering down the road, followed by a pride of lambs all named after you. after i smashed your lamp i blamed it on my unhappy childhood, to which you blamed your not having sympathy for my unhappy childhood on your unhappy childhood. late violets were blooming under the windowsill. on the ride back from the inpatient program you told me when you try to make all of suffering a metaphor it stops communicating anything. it takes more than martyrdom for most people to get remembered. in another timeline we're standing in the ruined city, only the city isn't ruined anymore. i've got the kid and you're holding a parasol, all of us watching a monkey dancing on top of a music box, the monkey watching the sea rise like a runaway loaf of sourdough. always easier to imagine life as better than it is, i suppose. your shadow's still roaming the apartment, rounding corners, filling mirrors. i turn around and there you are, wan in the refrigerator's light. our toddler's by the window, staring at us as they push over a table full of teacups.