This is not a poem for you/a poem that lies

I don’t know if you’ll read this,

and I hope you don’t.

Just know that this isn’t for you, none of these words ever are. It’s not about the last pair of hands that spelled safety. Or how grateful I was for the dark, even the moon dimmed, when the truth came.

Maybe this will make you think about the last time we spoke. Me quiet (for once), knowing that something irrevocable had shifted, that we burned through whatever starlight we had. You talked more than usual, filling up the space, trying to not leave room for me to shrink away. Are you thinking about it? Sleepworn, slow, early morning disaster? I think this is what’s called projecting.

You might think that this is for you. Maybe you’ll smile, maybe you’ll be grateful, maybe you’ll cringe at the obvious want in these words. You know that I leave my love letters unaddressed, but in a way, everything I write is a love letter. Except this, this doesn’t know what love means, has never met it, they live in different towns on opposite ends of the globe.

After all, you cannot miss someone you never really knew.

 

 

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