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.
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.