recently, i want to write letters. envelopes
with no return address, containing no words but
littoral puzzle pieces.
containing pressed flowers and dawn,
starlight and gold gilded paper.
blank postcards, a window to endless fields, the ocean never
meeting a horizon.
preserving something good of the past,
postal packages that feel too aureate to send to
people, real living souls. find the strange
stillness of a device out of time and
mechanised, a reminder, restoration and remembrance of
light amongst the fog; as artists are wont.
i want to send poetry, zephyr plucked from the window
of the study; the cosmos, all its chaotic
in an artificial vacuum.
i wonder if you still remember me.
it’s funny how daydreams work: i haven’t seen you
for half our lives, and there isn’t really a face i can put you to.
you turning, calling my name
me turning, calling your name
answered with our smile.
it’ll never happen, of course;
i won’t recognize you.
you won’t remember me.
RE: DEAR YOU,
it’s always strange to meet
someone you haven’t seen in years.
but there’s something magical about
knowing immediately who they are.
and this was a good time, i think:
i figured out how to explore the city without dragging
unwilling souls all over,
i’ve learned to distance myself enough and know
that everyone has their own life to continue,
even on pause. and anyway, i see more now than
then, so i think this went well. maybe i’ll see you again.
i’m not good at keeping touch, who have
i kept as friends after all those years? forgive me;
see you around