Dear Melissa,


Last night I was tacoing without you,

unaware of your tilapia, not cognizant

of the small fillet, of your skinny latte.

16 ozs. is not enough for us amongst

the copies and the cow’s milk, the professorial

commentary, the planter with the one

good tulip, the fees we charge each other

for gifts of sass and cashmere, vodka tonics

and home movies. Last time I was inside

you, I could have sworn you called me Brendon.