Joan Cappello

every night we skype and he tells me things like how i weigh too much to be an actress

and that smell has no words and the long story of how donna rocco’s nose came to be tipped ever so slightly to the right “it has to do with storage space” he yells over the sound of loneliness bouncing off our walls launching him into a dissertation on the seven levels of silence

until my sky goes black with waiting and he smiles then takes a sip from the trick glass i once bought him as a souvenir