Empty Skies

This morning’s sunrise was a tacky and artificial affair. The sun was played by a weak, 12-watt, refrigerator bulb that looked wet and heavy as it struggled uphill like a drunk. The horizon reminded me of a cheap, runny theatrical illusion, the clouds were old cotton balls glued to cardboard silhouettes, the birds sagged like dead puppets from uneven, coat hanger wires. I don’t miss you. Everything’s fine. I hardly noticed you were gone, actually. Things here are a laugh and a half. We’re doing fun girl things. Anna got new shoes. I’m hardened by years of inescapable, solitary, covid lockdown. I’m immune to despair. So go off, interview for that new, far-flung PhD life. Go fawn over Elon Musk for all I care. I’m definitely not in my room eating spoons of peanut butter and crying to Tom Waits songs.