I'm not angry. I'm making tea.
There's a difference. I don't
dislike you, I'm sitting on a futon
reading a book, eating edamame.
And I know you don't dislike me.
What's not to like? I imagine
you texting You okay, no
question mark—and my reply,
an unpunctuated I guess.
Two text messages, two pale
flowers in a clear glass vase.

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