I Write a Long-Overdue Letter

Dear Julian,

Your room still smells of prison. Your clothes are still lying around, with cigarette pock-marks scarring their youthful features. I still have one of your sweaters, the one with the cut-out smiley face on the right sleeve. The left sleeve looks gloomy in comparison. I probably shouldn’t mention anything regarding freedom, so I guess I can’t say anything about the breeze that wanders like some invisible spirit beckoning me to play outside or the weather that changes like one of those cross-dressing prostitutes you and I met after getting lost in London. I think one of them was called Jen, or John, I can’t remember. Don’t ask me why I’m in your room right now. Maybe it was the siren I heard outside of the mall the other day, or dad’s glistening gold watch that reminded mom of a missing handcuff. She quickly told dad to cover up the naked time piece.

Mom cries now every time she sees baby powder at the store. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the whiteness, or maybe it’s just the powder. I’m guessing it’s because it kind of drips through your fingers, like satin, or the tearful clichés I’m trying to hold back because frankly, I’m fucking pissed like a urinal cake. When you come back, instead of smelling like hibiscus blossoms, or even ivory, you’ll come back reeking of damp confinement and sun flowers in October. I’m picturing you coming back looking like the letter ‘Z’ and being reminded of the line, “I dream of hospital beds / and you lying / in one.”

I hope you aren’t too upset with me for not visiting you, but I didn’t want to be reminded of Jen (or John) and have mom tell me to explain the politics in my poetry to kill time.

Your Fraternal Foe,

Justin