postcard, turned letter

it isn’t beautiful here.
I’m not happy with the way
I’m spending my days. 
without you
feels too much like punishment
for something someone else
thinks I did.

I did nothing.
I did everything.
I suppose it doesn’t matter.

still, you don’t write.
still, I’m living 
in the abstract space
of white on white,
color in the absence
of everything.

this is not serenity,
not peace, not the rush
of the ocean or its sweet
salt promise; no,
this is longing
gone dark around the edges,
emptiness as rough
as a hangman’s noose.

this is the ringing
sound after a bomb
has fallen, ashes and aftermath,
and things I don’t understand –
what language is this?
shouldn’t I recognize something?
this is something else’s handwriting,
not mine,
not yours.

perhaps I should apologize
for being unable to judge
the small monster in my heart,
the only thing that’s kept me
from having an epiphany
on the bathroom floor,
because I believe (too much)
that this exists –
because I believe (so much)
in you.

this is not a year
ripe with self-loathing
or despair; it is not equal parts
shame and regret –
put the scale down.
this is not how we measure
failure or success, collected
in empty coffee cups
and parking lots.

I am still, despite everything
that’s happened 
and not happened. I can kiss
the negative space,
but that won’t make it disappear.
tell me, quick:
do you think I’m happy?
do you think I’ve given up
all our old pronouns,
the adjectives of love
that’s not love,
not unless you can say it out loud.

I can. I have –
and that is the only
difference. it is nearly
fifteen years later,
and I’m still wearing
my grenade heart
in your teeth.

it isn’t beautiful here,
but beauty was never
what I was after.