Dearheart, you’re not the person I walked with. It isn’t you in this blurred polaroid. Remember: I learned your lips one evening, only that one. How did you become yarn crisscrossing a room I can’t help visiting? I still trip over what I couldn’t love, what I might have loved, what I still love. How many times will our fingers trace these lines and barely miss each other? Nothing exists now that we can touch. The spaces I was were never yours, except for now. Do I thank you for the gift of intangibility? I would rather be crystal than fossil. Can you find my facets and keep me from calcifying? I can never say what I mean when I talk to you.
Letter to an old friend (who might contain my younger self)
