their questions

 their questions

they all miss her. my friends, our friends. i can see it, they all miss us. they miss our ferocious light and the heat we shared. we gave them all reason to believe in love. they’re married or divorced now and we’re dead and moved on to two lives, forever blanched by the nova we lived and died by. have you seen her? when i say no, i haven’t seen her in a year, heard she’s living with some brute, the curiosity becomes a five-year silence. i haven’t seen her. i haven’t talked to her. i don’t want to see her. i don’t want to talk to her. i could see her. i could talk to her. but it’s over. (next subject.) but no, they don’t want to see the wreck marked with a buoy. dinners. wine. card games. laughter we all once made. the sounds she made . . the neighbor consulting her on orgasms. they all miss her, us. they don’t like knowing their memories are memories. they think of themselves today. if jess and pat didn’t make it, nobody’s going to make it. hope wants hope. they’re scared. they never ask if i miss her.