Missive

And To all of you little people
in between,

I'm so very, very sorry

~Fathom~

Alright First,

You, to the east

who burns on the distant shore

a candle on both ends

of time

Waiting.

Don't think all day.
Dive into my words

The doors I close

and read my soul ringing apology.

Our emails are touchstones

in this rich sea of the human concourse

but my former self, that tangent you touched

Where has he gone?

Far from your soft white light, far from your cavernous

flesh expanse and the mounting promise of

so much hot more.

Don't think all day.

Dive into your world

The doors burn open, see how far we come

Until

I've said I'm sorry.

And you.

You in the middle

center of this landscape of my affections and

attention.

You for whom I

reclaimed a bit of light.

Every kiss, every fight felt right

until it wasn't and in my lost lovelite oblivion mind

I failed to notice I'd

lost you in flight

there, she ascends, see? I, the boy who fell from the sky

Dying in

each drip of hurt

that make up this wave I sail upon

I am held up by my choice few quivering poetical stars

long dead, and ever unstable.

And on this wave I found a companion

who could be there.

And that wasn't fair to you

But I'm not apologizing.

The scene that sticks in my mind

is a day after you left

and the world was white and fixed and glassy

as if not at all real but a photograph of itself

and I wanted nothing more than the phone to ring

and it never did so I slept and had a dream

where a girl cradled a phone to her lap

and awoke because you had called.

Just checking.

Just checking.

Never checked.

Maybe that's what I loved about you.

That and your ungainly limbs, your translucent paper-fine skin

your, I am inarticulate

And this is pointless, and enough.

For now.

And last but not least

but certainly latest from the latent west

You who have swallowed the moon

and glow behind wild and fitful clouds that have

extinguished my sun.

I'm not the one.

You leave me gaping, content.

Keep me occupied these costive days

and barefoot I am reminded on our

quite walk into the wind

that the past is real and these

slivers of my heart you stab into your

self

to recall that your

self still exists

are not my full heart,

nor will that bird be open to you.

Fact is, he will fly away. See him soar?

Transpierce the daily paper and mail

See the sore vestigial masses

See him soar.

Fact is, he will fly away

over ground-zero, and weeping openly

past each tortured surly star

and into the now thwarted impossible.

This world is made of subtractions from a whole

the tiny pains and iniquities, that we get used to one at a time until we die

We are made of what we have lost

And this man, at least, the latest

the recreant

is grateful, but not the one.

See how he shines

The asshole.

And you,

now

You now, Me.

The artist who couldn't draw

himself perfectly

now drawing himself

not draw himself, perfectly.

Oh you of the shivering vanity

whose fleeting flits of attention can't mask his gnawing sadness

You. Now.

That's all you have.

Not half a heart or

these tasteless drivel words that drive you depend on

not more sex

or 'what others think' or

your worn out soul shoes, or the all the letters

to the unstoppably lost bawds of the universe.

Focus.

Don't be a fool.

Wear that mask a while longer

because you do now

stay with me

now.

Because now is all we have.