Read

I typed it out at 11 p.m.,

two words, no punctuation, sent.

I forgive you. A strange little hem

I'd sewn for years without intent

to ever wear it. And the screen

showed read. Just read. The two of you—

me and the word—suspended clean

above whatever came into

the room after that. Nothing came.

I put the phone face-down and sat

on the unmade bed. I felt the same

and also not. Something went flat

that I had sharpened carefully.

I didn't cry. I watched the wall.

Outside, someone's dog was barking, free

and inconsolable. That's all.