All the words I can’t say.

The temptation to respond to the blinking cursor reminds me to only write to the ghost of you that lives on my paper.

The public eye shows me you are well, so my concerns are merely vain attempts to be your friend.

I’m doing well in most things

I am loved.

I love.

I wake up–

And I can move.

My dearest treasures are safe,

But you are not my friend and I grieve your loss.