After seven years of silence
—a soft mumble of an email.
I miss you.
More of a murmur in sleep
than a conscious sentiment.
But we were never friends.
More like refugees huddled together
trying to survive the same war.
Waiting in blown-out rooms for our men
to return from the torn streets
as we search through the rubble for some sort of sustenance.
Our backs bent, heavy with hope.
We did what we had to do to get by.
Swallowed paper to dull the intimacy of hunger.
Leaned into each other’s back to combine our body heat
in order to survive.
Perhaps that’s why you write now,
fat and happy in your rented life.
Because you still wake up cold, sweating out the memory;
you’re back, open and alone in a room
—still craving the taste of paper.