Her E-Mail was polite

but damningly self shaming,

as she flattered herself into believing

that the world was alright,

perfect blue on the horizon

and not a rain drop

in sight to spoil her view.

 

I don’t know why we ever stopped

talking, she wrote with several

emoticons displaying insincerity

in her thoughts but to whom

the coy yellow smile sensed an opportunity

to gloss over the past, to paint

herself in a glowing light of reconciliation.

 

She signed it off with that annoying letter t

and she placed a x,

which marked the spot in which

I was supposed to stand, shoulders back,

think of England and take the bullet

between the mouth and not say a word

to her fumbled, artificial apology.

 

So I took the bullet hard on the chest

and smiled as I wrote in return

a simple note of thanks for

the apology, (which never came)

and remembered her last words to me

in which the thunderstorm,

dark, electric and chilling

surrounded me, as I put my son first

above her self-centred shower.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016