the envelope held a brown letter
and I had nothing else from you but some rest.
you are somewhere else and only spend some days looking back.
it's pitched completely desolate, a single speck of civilization on a planet's view from atmosphere.
you run the shape of my skull through your fingers and it barely shakes your penmanship.
the ink is unconventional and cheap. haphazard and makeshift.
you remember more than you let on. and fuck it.
i begged you back in words and in a way i told fiction.
there was a ditch you could have followed to where they lay me down at last.
you run the shape of my skull through your lips and it barely shakes your songs.
the notes are flat and disgusting. you laugh and drink wine.
they were meant for me but they're easier sent to shore.
for men with honor or less.
at least there are patient moments.
i found a way for you to take me back home, disassembled.
schematics scattered and written in masonic symbols.
almost religious the way you disbelieved it.
some ritual for the other ones more or less sacred based on how bad you needed it.
shape of my skull on your lips. you spoke in genuflections.
lay some flecks on the ground in seminal patterns.
a ceremony for ill conceived plans.
i left but you just left better.
for real this time.
except you don't leave.
you send me pictures of yourself sleeping.
the words of the letter, and the way you looked up from it.
and will you always keep the envelope?
this was submitted to two poetry blogs. both declined.