i miss her so much, i’ll never stop talking to her
she journals enigmatically, before we hear the news.
it couldn’t be who i worry it is, i think to myself.
surely she would say more clearly if it were.
but she didn’t, and it was. it is.
i miss her even when i’m not crying
she types to me, almost an afterthought.
we share rootbeer floats and waffles,
a quartet of friends alone together,
each in her own bubble of roughtimes.
oh gosh i miss her she types later,
telling me how the word ‘bingo’ surely
indicates the presence of her mother.
and i think to myself ‘but not the one
with purpleblack fingers…’ not her.
i am anxious to see a bingo sign
so i might shout a hello to this woman
i’d met only on poetrystrewn pages.
i am anxious to feel her new fingers —
made of lilacpurple springfresh wind–
tickle our faces, brush through our hair.