Belruel

Trees are being kept busy with waving. I tie bundles of letters I didn't have the heart to send you, tie them with thin ribbon and hide them high on a shelf. I sleep on my stomach and wake up sore, like I've washed up on a beach somewhere, my skin sunburnt my elbows scarred. I pray every day for the moon to erase your face from my mind, but still light pools at the foot of the bed and my mind has memorized your phone number without me telling it to. There are so many things I want to say, but I fold them, envelope them, address them, hide them up on that shelf, in the closet where we carved our names on the door jamb. I wake up