I will no longer bother to write these letters. I will finally give it all a rest, no pen and ink and postage to worry or delay. Scratching away at every surface. The itch of shadows crawling on the skin. The written down sound of all this collusion. The bottled message always adrift. Then I can finally abandon waiting on the mailman. Then I can wake up from these dreams at peace.
You are in the dust and nudgings of this place. The room only missing you by dense minutes. Glass smudged and unfamiliar to light. You are there before this moonset. That moment when the light sails into the sea to sleep. There is a dream that crests just before you. There is a dream that walks with you in waste.
We wait awhile in this drawling darkness. Our aches and sighs never shared in full. There is a drift, a slip in attentions. There is a distance that seethes from our flesh. We settle on the appetites, we settles on the words. The names and the pins plunged into some maps we imagined, continents and isles only there because the monsters have unwound. We breathe here, never settled, never sure. We leave with nothing but names.