Would be an invitation for scabs to start backpedaling,
unwinding any possible progress of healing,
Would be an intentional again-open wound,
an opportunity to study the way the aftereffects of you
affected every shrieking, shrinking cell,
standing on a porch
arms wide to the wind
hoping the sky isn’t green in hurricane season and I thought
I wouldn’t be able to take it.
But I guess by now I’m different.
And when you say you missed talking to me, I don’t know if you mean it,
and if I’d told myself I’d write another poem directed to you, I wouldn’t have believed it,
but it was weird enough to warrant
attention and expression—I didn’t
miss talking to you. But I didn’t mind it, either,
though I think in the “real” world
above, beyond, our cell phones
(since I say “talking” but it wasn’t technically),
it won’t have changed anything.
I’ll still flinch at your antics and you’ll still act like you’re always right,
but at least we understood each other for a few hours the other night.