Dearest Cynthia,

What could I offer you

that would drag you

from this cardboard crypt

you’ve contaminated with your presence?

Oh, Cynthia.


And up the porch steps

through the door you’d come

leaving scratches on the asphalt and the concrete

ripping holes in the screen door

to invite further company.


For days I left a dish of milk by your stiff face

but only attracted the most degenerate

unwanted and unnamed creatures.

You remain unimpressed.


What I would give

to rake your vertebrae with my digits once

again delivering a shiver.


I have enclosed this letter

in the hope that if one morning you uncover your slitted irises

you might read it and remember me.

Claw your way out of this grave

that I have dug for you

purposefully shallow.

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