Nothing Promised

Nothing is promised, except maybe death. Death was a promise you didn’t want to hear. I didn’t want to hear it for you. I wrote you down every Tuesday of every week in next year’s calendar, as though 2:30 was a time death couldn’t touch. Death proved me wrong. Death ruined my calendar. I couldn’t cross you out without crying. I had to buy a new calendar. 

published in Write Under the Moon