Dear Ex-Best Friend,

I'm sorry I broke your heart.

Every single night of April I

stayed awake until 1 am,

conspiring with the shadows

in my closet.

I know you feel alone in these

walls—I know the sunset is just a

natural phenomenon to you but

please, go look at it,

the foul blues and revolting

greens—it means nothing in the

end. I want you to stay alive

and I want people to stop dying,

and I’m afraid I won’t get either of

those things.

I built a house in a video game

and thought of you—your cats,

your dog, your desk and the chair

I’d always steal from your sister—

does your house echo

with emptiness now that

your mother is on the front lines?

If I set a plate for you, won’t you

please come inside?

I hope she isn’t sick. I hope you

would tell me.

(I know you won’t.)

While I spend months in my room

and fragment into glassy pieces,

I remember our private

conversations.

We were also sick, you and I,

as sick as the people who

cough and cough on the subway

and on the ride home from the

hospital where there just

aren’t enough seats.

Do you even like poetry?

Are you still alive or did you

die on March 13th or June 5th

or July 27th and I am talking

to an uncaring void?

You make me feel small.

Tell your sister I'm happy she

got into your dream school—

tell your mother I'm glad she's

a hero—pet your cats for me,

one last time.