I lost the "thank you" stationary somewhere among the bills and insurance claims. I'm sorry. I thought the colored stripes suited your bright personality but I guess plain black ink reflects me well. I write to the sound of the television. There's no judgment in constant noise, and no loneliness in illusion. The falseness keeps me company.
Don't come. I'm glad you're not here. This sort of thing is only done alone anyway. The flowers were enough. They sit on the kitchen windowsill, white lilies fading in the sunlight.
Shelly Holder, born in the Mojave Desert, now studies at the College of William and Mary in Virginia and enjoys the four distinct weather patterns there. Her work has appeared in Mandala Journal, Everyday Poets, and other fine places.