Francine Witte ~ You Will Come Back to Me

Maybe on a Thursday, maybe tomor­row. You will knock knock knock at the door. I will be afraid to open it, hav­ing grown scarce and wan like I have. I will be afraid of all the things that aren’t love.

I will be in the kitchen. It will be 10 am or mid­night. I will be mak­ing cocoa. I will skim it with marsh­mal­lows, just how you liked. I still do lots of things you like. I brush my hair. I walk in straight lines.

You will come back to me and you will apol­o­gize for 123 and xyz. You will bring me sor­ry gobs of flow­ers. You will water them with your tears. I will tell you this time will be dif­fer­ent. “I only opened the door,” I will say, “because I thought it was the news­pa­per,” though I read every­thing online.

You will walk right over to your favorite chair. The arm­rest remem­bers your hands which are cal­loused and rough and thrilling. I will tell you we are going to go slow. Glacial. We will melt so slow that even polar bears would have time to find safer ground.

I will serve you the cocoa I meant for myself. When we order a piz­za, you will let me add anchovies the way you nev­er would. You will give me the last of the wine. It won’t be till lat­er, when the bed has swal­lowed me, when the pil­lows have stuffed up my ears, that you will turn to me, stroke back my hair, say how the marsh­mal­lows were real­ly too sweet.


Francine Witte’s upcom­ing books are a flash col­lec­tion, RADIO WATER, (Roadside Press, 2024,) and a poet­ry col­lec­tion, Some Distant Pin of Light, (Cervena Barva Press, 2024.) She is flash fic­tion edi­tor of FLASH BOULEVARD and South Florida Poetry Journal. She lives in NYC. Her web­site is