maybe i’ll write a letter back to you
for every year my wrists keep aching.
i might have felt my own tears down the drain,
somehow i misplaced the feeling for the afterthought
the sensation that is only brought along
by the offender in an argument.
that feeling of relentless causality,
a means to an end with no good reason,
other than to call you mine, yours, or the ‘love of my life’.
seems like an absurd thought, too big to tell
the difference between what’s realistically my life’s journey
and the desire to belong, in a second,
behind these closed doors,
through paper and paper,
to the one to whom these feelings are addressed,
the one that will, out of many,
find my fears and my suicidal strategies to care enclosed
in an envelope of forgiveness;
maybe to make amends,
or to recall in our past lives
how we could sit next to the running river with our wet
soles and tired glances.
which ever that destiny may be for either of us
it’s the eyes that see behind the cracks in the wall and tear down the remnants of
dried out skin,
it’s the mouth shut close to keep a secret untold,
a stillness that could defy even my own integrity
framed in a picture
with a look i’ll always remember you for.
maybe our next letter is a goodbye tale,
the romance shattered to ashes.
in any case, i’ll keep my pen ready
for when the time comes and i’ve run out of photographs
to remember you for.
for every year my wrists keep aching.
i might have felt my own tears down the drain,
somehow i misplaced the feeling for the afterthought
the sensation that is only brought along
by the offender in an argument.
that feeling of relentless causality,
a means to an end with no good reason,
other than to call you mine, yours, or the ‘love of my life’.
seems like an absurd thought, too big to tell
the difference between what’s realistically my life’s journey
and the desire to belong, in a second,
behind these closed doors,
through paper and paper,
to the one to whom these feelings are addressed,
the one that will, out of many,
find my fears and my suicidal strategies to care enclosed
in an envelope of forgiveness;
maybe to make amends,
or to recall in our past lives
how we could sit next to the running river with our wet
soles and tired glances.
which ever that destiny may be for either of us
it’s the eyes that see behind the cracks in the wall and tear down the remnants of
dried out skin,
it’s the mouth shut close to keep a secret untold,
a stillness that could defy even my own integrity
framed in a picture
with a look i’ll always remember you for.
maybe our next letter is a goodbye tale,
the romance shattered to ashes.
in any case, i’ll keep my pen ready
for when the time comes and i’ve run out of photographs
to remember you for.