why do i read your letters

as if there’s anything new to say.

it’s always walking the dogs,
the residual guilt of
one more episode.
the foggy commute to
a stretch before
a Zoom binge.

it’s last night’s leftovers
in a container that
changed some influencer’s life.
what we made together—
link in bio.

isn’t the plate cold?
maybe a little more salt.
or are we both so tired
trying to figure it all out?

the mundane consumes me
but the rush of your handwriting
is like a boiling pot—
don’t touch it;
it will burn.

arrange yourself in a shape
across oceans and timelines.
it’s bigger now, and
somehow not there.