from
 MONO NO AWARE
Miki Howald

I wish I could have marked you as mine. I wanted to bite you and leave a scar, so you couldn’t forget about me. The long scratches I left on your back must have healed by now, just as the bruises on my thighs from your hips faded months ago. It wouldn’t help now, I know, three thousand miles apart and separated by a silence far greater than distance.

We write each other letters. I don’t know if it’s out of courtesy, or regret. Sometimes when I hear from you, I want to scream. You tell me about your new haircut. You tell me about the movies you’ve seen, tell me what I must watch on the big screen. I want you to say you're sinking without me, that your bones ache at night because I'm not there. I want you to tell me my image burns inside your eyelids. But this isn't fair to you; we tell each other nothing.

If this were a letter to you, I’d tell you the mundane details of my day: it rained; I bounced a check; I might get the job offer I want, so I can spend my days with computers and data, knowing who prospered this quarter and who gives corporate donations. I’d tell you that I bought a new pair of shoes in red leather, my favorite.

If this were a letter to you, I’d leave out everything I want to tell you: yesterday I came home from work and took off all my clothes and held a vibrator like it was you; I lay naked and bucking on my bedroom floor—just where you’d want me if you were still here.