I'm looking at you, thinking about how I can't stop this
spate of sound and how it's making me
Wonder if, finally,
I've gone stark, raving mad. But I'm losing a little more light every day so I'm wringing 'em out and letting 'em dry.
flapping and fighting the wind but the fresh air is doing them good.
I'm not about
to rescue them - or you. This time. I'm
watching from the window and I'm writing you a wish for this forthcoming year. I'm feeling the contour of the former and the finished and the figuration of the edge
forever, the scarp we stood on, not
so long ago.
And, then, your lack of any of any
kind and your silence and your superfluity and all
the wrong moments and near misses. I'm recalling how my fingers traced your wound and how I knew I'd leave another and suffer one, as well. I'm envisioning the abundance
your absence. I am questioning your innocence as well as mine. And I'm remembering testing
the integrity of your infrastructure, one foot weighing each rickety step leading up the spiral
curve of impenitent insistence
and the house of intrigue, completely
crashing down but safe and home, I'm noting, too, your silhouette still
hanging on my wall. So, I'm editing, now, emotion and offering you, instead of hope,
the truth and I'm telling you,
I wish you well.
Write at the Merge