replay

so yes, i did it.

i'm not ashamed to admit. i went through all the old messages you sent me.

i read and cried in between the lines. i didn't even gasp for air at full stops. and i didn't hiccup for commas. forget the parentheses, i kicked them about, turned them upside down and walked over them.
the ellipses were a hopscotch trick, thanks.
and the slashes i slid down, the dashes, i skidded off.
i jumped at the exclamation marks.
you built a jungle gym for me with your old letters. just like you did as a P.E. teacher for kindergartners. you're such a pro, blah-dee-dah. good on you.
but i still find myself spinning aimlessly around the curves of the question marks. will it never stop?
i removed all quotation marks cause you don't say those things anymore. not to me at least.
don't worry, the sentences that held your emotions and smiley faces, i handled with care.
the ones where you used bobby instead of your own words, i sang them. even though they were a little out of tune.
then that big one, where you drew a metaphor. you compared me to your favourite oldest pair of jeans, that one, i folded and kept in my breast pocket.
there are some messages, where i sense a cracked pattern in the negative space around the letters. those must have been the ones that shook us. that brought us here.
the ones that talk about pepe are fuzzy and cuddle around my neck and arms and chest.
there are some messages that stretch over continents. they seem strained and look tired.
the last one from you celebrated a faux three year anniversary we never made, then a p.s. on how you went through old photos of us.

i've never cared for shirts with breast pockets.