Cannon Roxanne Crawford–Wilson

two. she is the kind of girl that people want to write poems about. but she never reads them.

one. she speaks to you like a human. you forgot what that felt like. late night texts are routine. she has to move away to find herself. she throws her phone into a lake but not before telling you she’ll miss you. you remember that felt like a lie, because why would someone give hope to someone they plan to throw into a lake? it felt silly, for the first time, grief. your last memory of her is on a screen, a love (?) letter punctuated by a heart emoticon with an extra space. you do not cry, this time.

you never talk about her. she looks plastic in her photographs but her hugs are warm. you have a space in your closet for her shoes. zero.

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