The texting never stops, only gets interrupted by need for
sleep or shower, my phone on vibrate so it sometimes even wakes me when I dose.
Sometimes it’s merely a photo, too dark to make out at
first, the details of which emerge only after a long time of staring.
Most pictures are pictures of her, with hat or slanted
smile, though at times they show her with others, no explanation, no clue as to
who they are, and when I text back to ask she responds “friends,” but no
context, and when I press she gives me something such as “I thought you would
be interested,” or “Just keeping your informed,” when informed is the last
thing she is doing.
Sometimes the pictures are so dark I have to download to
lighten them and in one case find her in an image of her on her roof, “what is
this?” she doesn’t say, just the face and the potential fall, nothing to say if
she will take the plunge or not, my palms sweating as if holding onto the end
of rope that keeps her safe, staring at the image, wondering about it,
remembering the first poem she wrote about me that said “Don’t fucking save me”
with me asking, “How can I when you’re there and I’m here,” wondering will she
take a picture, too, as she falls.
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