One Day After
Dear Beth,
You're not dead. You didn't die. You couldn't have. That wasn't your dead body found under the train. It wasn't you. It wasn't you. It wasn't you. You're not dead. You'll be at my door tomorrow, movie in one arm, a bottle of expensive wine in the other. You'll say, "Only the best for my girl. Only the best for my Ali." We'll watch the stupid, stupid sappy movie. Maybe I'll order pizza. Maybe you'll kiss me. You'll taste like the wine. You're not dead. You didn't die.
Two Days After
Dear Beth,
You're not dead. You didn't die. You didn't show up at my house today. That's okay. I know you work long hours sometimes with very little notice. That's okay. You're off duty tomorrow. You'll be here tomorrow. You're not dead. You didn't die.
Three Days After
Dear Beth,
You're not dead. You didn't die. I know your memory's bad but you forgot to show up today. I opened a bottle of wine anyway. I don't want to drink this by myself.
One Week After
Dear Beth,
You're not dead. You didn't die. You haven't called me in a week. Please call. I miss your voice. I've bought four bottles of wine. They're for you. I bought your favorite. Please call.
Two Weeks After
Dear Beth,
You're not allowed to be dead. That's silly isn't it? Me making a rule for something that hasn't happened nor will ever happen? I am a silly goose. You're not dead. You didn't die.
Three Weeks After
Dear Beth,
Cosima stopped by. I thought she was you. Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. She gave me some of the things from your apartment. Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. Where are you? Why is Cosima giving your things away? Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.
Four Weeks After
Dear Beth,
I know where you went now. I wish I didn't.
Five Weeks After
Dear Beth,
How could you leave me? How could you die? Why was the body found underneath the train yours? That couldn't have been you. It wasn't you. It wasn't you. It wasn't you. You're not dead. You didn't die. Dead. You're Dead.
Six Weeks After
Dear Beth,
Sometimes at night I can still taste the wine on my lips. I pretend it's from kissing you. We both know it isn't.
Seven Weeks After
Dear Beth,
I still listen to your voicemails. I don't want to forget your voice, the way you smelled, how your hair tickled my neck when we were spooning. I don't want to forget. I miss you. This is just a bad dream isn't it? You're not dead. You didn't die.
Eight Weeks After
Dear Beth,
All I want to do is forget. Please let me forget. Please. Please. Please.
Nine Weeks After
Dead Beth,
I meant to write Dear. Funny isn't it? Funny. Funny. Funny.
Ten Weeks After
Dear Beth,
You showed up at my house today. You had some shitty sappy movie in one hand and a bottle of the wine I'm so fucking sick of in the other. I woke up. Just a dream.
Eleven Weeks After
Dear Beth,
I want to forget. I want to forget. I want to forget.
Twelve Weeks After
Dear Beth,
You're dead but you're still so fucking alive in my mind. I hate it. I hate you.
I want to forget.