Two

Dear Mr. Blue,

I am aware of you
in a way you may not understand.
I hide between library stacks,
I run to empty hallways,
trying to lose you.
Or at least the feeling of you.

In a week you created me,
with a reality you carefully orchestrated,
only to pull the hypothetical plug
without warning, reason, or rhyme.
I scream "injustice!" with a tired voice,
and you sit in your chair and chuckle.

Abomination, I say.
It's the only thing I can say. . .

Yours,

Eleanor.