Letters For When I Forget

My dearest friend,

Do you find it fulfilling loitering? In the late afternoon, here come the dogs, here come their owners, wet and meaty.
I think they are trying to become one. ‘man’ ‘friend’ I jump rope! Six legs in the eyes of no one.

Outside your front door, I count the number of flying bugs it takes for you to open it. Mosquito on wood, it’s number seven.

I have little else to offer you now. I’m sorry. Do you remember my mom’s kitchen? There were those cups you liked—ceramic, with the fish on them. March, April, May. It all goes by so fast! I imagine all flying bugs must be dead. Too cold, too metaphorical; I won’t say I remember them though. Dad says it’s crude, imagining you, like we are walking in the park, mouths dry, making resolutions. Like we are still children. I push you; you push me.

I revolt!
Only I push this time.

I remember, my friend, your veins are blue in the sunlight.
Blue.

Yours,
A