i know we all have our own lives. we spiral in our own orbits. i’m telling myself the reason you never text is because you’re busy. i ask you how things are going, the conversation is stilted. remember when we were madly in love. when you would text me with every stupid joke you thought of.
“how you been?” i ask. three days later i get, “fine.”
i am trying to tell myself: at least you’re alive.