I miss your novel.

What will become of that post apocalyptic world?

Maybe you never finished.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Maybe in my head you’re a much better person than you really are.

Successful, accomplished.

You should be grateful, for the fantasy life I’ve been giving you.

It all doesn’t matter that much.

I swear it doesn’t.

I only think about you when there’s nothing else.

When I’m trying to grasp on to life in some meaningful way.

Trying to pretend I had something once.

When I’m trying to own up to my mistakes.

I swear it doesn’t matter much.

I swear I only miss your novel.

What happened to that baby?

That hidden vessel.

That mystery.

What happened?