Dear Motherfucker

I’ve just turned back from the kitchen counter holding an open bottle of wine and two glasses to share with you, my friend, only to notice you haven’t moved position for years. You are still in the same clothes I met you in, your head tilts at the usual angle, you seem interested in what I’m saying, but you don’t respond to me anymore. You’re silent as a tomb.

I call to you repeatedly. Answer me.

Quit fooling around now!

My smile falters and I put the glasses down.

Can you hear me?

Are you there?

I walk around the counter to your stool and jump back seeing you have no third dimension. You’re a cutout!! My heart pounds. Questions fire along hundreds of synapses, piling up in my skull like a runaway grainery. How long have I been talking to a photo? How many people have watched me talk to to photo? Who tried to warn me? Where is your depth, anyway? Did I imagine everything? And where are you? Who are you?

....a smaller voice asks, Who are you with?

From this distance of time, your big, stupid smile that once charmed me looks so fake that I am briefly more hurt that I wasted my time than I am hurt from being pinned. Pinned by your vapid, self-serving, unconscionable stare.

You used me, you doped me --

you left me, you motherfucker.