Dear diary

Maybe I’ll start a diary, I think. 

A diary of you. 

Not a blog. 

Though I could write books and a full blog about you. 

Maybe a book. 

It would be a NYT bestseller, my poetry. 

No one else was ever my muse like you. 

How do I know? 

That first poem. 

That’s how. 

Tell me there is one better? 

There isn’t. 

Maybe this is entry one:

Dear diary. 

Today on my way home I waved at you when I saw you and you waved back. I’ll take the high road. I’m shocked you acknowledged my existence.

Yes, today I saw my friend/ex/ghost/past/someone…. Is there a word for you anymore?

Is there a word in the English dictionary for former friend?

 There isn’t. 

You get two words: Former friend. 

And I get all the fucking depression and heartache that took me, already in my grave from my job loss, and buried me 6ft under 6ft under. 

You get analogies and metaphors and these horrible depressing, aching poems. 

You get power. You won, right? 

You get empathy and sorrow. 

Or something. 

I feel sorry for you. Why? 

This. 

This is why: 

You’re the one who has to lay your head on your pillow and sleep with yourself at night and tell yourself what you did to me was good. Was the right thing. Was you doing better than the day before. 

Really? 

Is this what good looks like? 

Yay you. 

I am the one who sleeps alone and still, 28 weeks later, cries herself to sleep like a little kid. 

I suppose that makes 2 of us who feel like shit at night. 

Thanks. 

Thanks for that. 

Would 8 year old you do this to 8 year old me? 

That’s a real question. 

So is this:

Would 39 year old you pick up the phone and fix this? Treat me with some fucking respect and dignity? 

No one is making you do this. 

Or will 28 weeks turn to months turn to years turn to pain washed all the way down the river till one of us dies or the end of time?

Was this who you always were and I just ignored all the signs?

Or were there signs? 

I think so. 

You get poetry that’s in the same realm as Andrea Gibson, only undead and full of aching instead of love. Oh I could write love poems for years. And about everyone I’ve ever loved. That’s how deep my love is for everyone and everything. 

But no one, not even you, understands that. 

Or tries. 

No one gets me. 

Understands me. 

I’m in a universe all of my own out without a lantern looking for not myself, but for a universe where you and I are still friends. 

So tonight I saw_____. 

And here I am writing, hoping she will call/text/knock on my door. 

Or hoping the world will end so there will be nothing to feel anymore.

My muse, my 2am ghost, my now nothing. 

There is no word for you in the English vernacular. 

Except: nothing. Ghost. No one. Ex friend. 

But maybe someday soon there will be: friend. 

Just friend. 

Because today you waved back. 

And maybe, maybe that was something.