Dear J.

After so long, I was
surprised to hear from you,
astonished to read that
you wanted your words
returned.  Should I
send them Fed Ex?

I still recall them, though
whatever emotion was
attached to them at the
time has deconstructed,
like frost on the kitchen
bay window on a very
cold, dead winter day,
before the sun.

Hoarfrost, they call it,
when it adherers to trees
and other items exposed
to the elements.  When it
clings to people and
events, I’m uncertain.

You can certainly have
all your words back, I’m
not married to them, as
I’m not married to you.

The weather here has
improved.  Sunlight slants
through the east windows,
slips along the floor,
waltzes along fragile
spider webs by the fridge.

The front door is locked,
as it always is, the welcome
mat long removed.  In
the quiet of alone, time has
worn a path through memory,
left scars on the body of
being without you.