Always writing letters,
little notes that I do not enjoy ,for no one to see.
I swear I can still hear the notes you sang like a person haunted,
wired into my mind.
I was terrified and am enamoured of you,
like being addicted to a
drug that made me feel so good, so bad, overdosing on the thought of you.
I want to hit that sharp, wry, bitter sound of a spirit screaming and scratching,
latching onto a lie that isn’t you,
and if it were,
I would be hooked on some other version, another person,
long gone
who won’t sing for me, as intensely.
At least, no one is listening.
No one who is listening understands that I do not underestimate
length of their empathy.
This letter is not a plot for pity grown out of blame, shame, or guilt.
I mourn and that note needs to bellow from my chest and resonate
so I may fall down, let go,
and
rest.