How are you. No. Really. How are you? I’m writing because you told me not to call the house anymore. That it wasn’t safe. And this random P.O. Box that you’re using in an unfamiliar zip code, says more than any word you’ve not spoken. Word on the street is “love shouldn’t hurt” but I’m not sure you heard.
When the bruises faded, the wounds were still visible. How you flinched when certain color cars drove past us on the way to lunch. I saw what you didn’t want me to see and noticed what you covered.
I give you more than that broken wrist could ever hold, even when it’s made whole. I give you prayers of love and light. Prayers of love gone right. Prayers of love without fright. Prayers of a love that doesn’t hurt tonight.
Here when you’re ready,
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