Don’t Call Me, Maybe

Don’t call me. Don’t call me on your way home. Don’t call me because you’re bored or you’re waiting for someone else. Don’t call me to ask if we can just talk. Don’t call me to ask if we can just “not talk.”

Don’t write me a letter. Don’t slip it under my door. Don’ t fold it and unfold it to add just one more line to soften that third paragraph. Don’t read it and reread like a ravenous copyeditor thirsty for the blood of young, weak grammatical mistakes.  Don’t add a postscript as a joke.

Don’t sing me a song.  Don’t take a deep vulnerable breath at the beginning.  Don’t dance along to it a little bit. Don’t choose one that reminds me of something from a long time ago and catches all your charms in the right light. Don’t let your voice break on the last verse.

Don’t paint me a painting.  Don’t use my favorite colors. Don’t do an impression of Bob Ross to yourself while you work.  Don’t make it of a beach that reminds me of the one I go to in my mind when I want to relax. Don’t put your initials in the corner.

Don’t bake me a cake.  Don’t sift your essence into the batter. Don’t tie the box it’s in with baker’s twine that I can later make into a bracelet. Don’t frost it with a cipher, not even if it’s covert, or all natural. You know I can’t eat symbols; I’m subtext-intolerant.

Don’t make me a mixtape. Don’t make me a Spotify playlist and call it a “mixtape.” Don’t post intentional Youtube videos. Don’t attempt to communicate with me in any sort of melodic or lyrical code.

Don’t send me a picture. Don’t send me a picture of yourself or any of your adorable weapons. Don’t send me a photo of an inside joke. All of our jokes are outside now.

Don’t not do any of these things and, yet, psychically, spiritually, or electronically continue to disseminate your cryptic messages into my world. Don’t embed your spells into my social networks.  Don’t haunt me digitally. Don’t subtweet my existence. Don’t impel your aura toward my plane. Don’t conjure yourself into my dreams. Don’t manifest your ghost at my table.

Don’t. Stop. Don’t, just don’t.

But text me, sure, I mean, if you want to.