i have written you so many letters. they used to justify
                the scar on my neck, the color of my eyes in the dark,
how sometimes i cry and i can't explain it.

i would write, i know things aren't the best right now and
                i'm sorry, but i promise i'd rather have you like this than not at all.
you would gather me up and whisper, it's beautiful.

i really loved you the summer you wiped mosquito blood
                from your skin. when your hair was dark and it didn't matter to you
if you went out wearing the same shirt two days in a row.

you told me what you heard when you were west - if you
                could make it in los angeles, you could make it anywhere. that's
what the man in the suit told you, and i never forgave him.

you left two weeks ago. the day before you left, i spent
                hours on my bed composing another letter to give you before
oklahoma swallowed you whole. i spilled ink on my sheets.

when i handed you my letter, your eyes were indifferent,
                like you didn't want to waste your time, and i thought to myself
that maybe, maybe i just should not love you anymore.