Under the skin
of the snapshots you sent,
thin lips strain against empty gesture smiles,
stillness studies the act of touch,
and you stand with the other I called friend.
Under my skin
with the snapshots you sent;
under I'll be fine in time,
under I don't miss you quite so much,
under forgetting what might have been.
So, I utter a curse
on the snapshots you sent.
A curse on your plastic, pitying smiles!
A curse on the hands that used to touch me!
A curse on my reptilian bitch of a friend!
And, each time I see them I curse them again.
A Sunday Whirl wordle submitted to Open Link Monday at Real Toads