by Olivia
I knew that one day I would wake up and would barely be able to breathe. Why? Because grief would be dancing on my throat. I poured milk into the sink because the spoons were too loud this morning. You used to purr when you stirred your coffee and now the silence just bleeds through the wallpaper. The computer looked at me funny. I unplugged it. I’m not stupid. Your memories are still by the door. I tried talking to them. One of them told me it misses the left side of your brain more. I think it’s jealousy. I haven’t told the right one yet. The idea of not seeing the lady bug makes me laugh. I saw him eating last night, but the raven flew away. A crow came in replace. By the ravenously protective face I perched on my own mat. Rainbows are what I wished I saw at 10 o’clock. I don’t want to be driving now because the twinge of breadcrumbs still hangs perhaps. My elbows won’t stop shaking while painting cereal I’m eating. Only a sock and a dead moth are left. You're in my mind but I think I lost the shovel. Maybe I ate it. It doesn’t matter. I still love you. I’ll mail you doves. Just enough so the birds will only notice. They will blink. Maybe I’ll paint twelve versions of you on Wednesday. But I don’t own jam. Do you hear me? I DON’T OWN JAM. And I didn’t see it thankfully.