Letters in the Freezer: Almost Lover II

By Sophie Ezzell

Almost Lover,

I forgot which frozen letter

I folded your picture inside—I remember taking you

from the wall beside my bed, pulling

the tape slowly so as to not separate

the pieces of your face from the pieces

of mine. But when I folded you

and me, the crease left a cut

between our almost

touching cheeks. And I remembered our cheeks

and our chins and our lips striking

against each other like the rocks

we found in your backyard

while your mother and brother

were both working late. You said you learned

to make fire out of friction

at the girl scout meetings your dad took

you to before your dad took off

without you or your mother or any

kind of warning. We tore 

and crumpled our papers—

your failed math tests and my incomplete

poems that had your name

scratched in and crossed

out in the margins. We swept

the shreds into a pile and took turns rubbing

the rocks above them, making sparks

but never flames, at least

not ones strong enough to catch

our scraps. Eventually 

we scooped up our fragments from the grass

and threw them

in the trash. And I wish we had burned 

them. And I think the reason why I’m opening up

and thawing out these old letters

is so that I can find you

and unfold you from me, let you be 

consumed by the fire

shaking inside 

the candle on my desk. I want you

to be the kindling

waking the light

inside my bedroom.

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Sophie Ezzell (she/her) is a queer urban Appalachian writer. Her work has appeared in Under the Sun, Aquifer, and Pidgeonholes, and has been nominated for a Pushcart. She recently graduated from Marshall University with a BA in Creative Writing and is now pursuing an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Oklahoma State University. Lately, her work has begun to explore the relationship between trauma and the Appalachian region. Since moving to Oklahoma, she has become afraid of wolf spiders, the ever-looming threat of tornadoes, and flat landscapes.