I wrote this in February as I was preparing for sleepless, cold nights along the river. I wrote to him daily, but he never read any of it because, unbeknownst to me, he was locked up in a psychiatric hospital since the moment I hung up the phone in November.
I’m going to bathe in the moonlight where the bubbles kiss my skin. Where the waterfalls thunder down and sink me deep within. I’m going to dance in sheer linen that saturates my breasts. I’m going to spin under and beneath at your request. I’m going to lap up pools of seamen and take a lucky shot, at all your departed CONQUESTS that suffocate beneath the dirt and rot.