A Night Letter

I knew you'd take pleasure in knowing That I heavily drew myself from the bed, Feeling for parchment and the familiar cylinder of my pen. Giving up the rest in favor of curling, inky words, to unravel the scribbly blends in the stubborn cranium. Like a geranium aching to bloom, (A throbbing edge) So I will say that you are a smug stepstool To save my toes from a cold mud, With one, shaking leg that will hold long enough For me to barely reach a safe pasture. I always wanted to save you. I still do. You scare them all, and your smiles are weighted by a hostile eye. They are eyes that remind me too well Of the fish in the drying lakes who swim in doomed circles, circles, Finningly pacing and withheld the grace of one more pebble to gaze, The water films and the mudseams split and crack. I follow my own endeavors with this eagerness, I trace the string excitedly, and I forget you are behind me. The house you've begrudgingly withdrawn yourself in Begins to be but a hermited shadow with a candled center, A modest flame shying to a nub and finding it quite hard to breathe. You hoard your waxy lump, your nurse the flame with small gasps. I pity you. The fire that once toasted your milky bones struggles To warms your silvered magnet fingertips, I pity you. And I go on, off, and away. My face heavies as I draw the lax phrases to you, The ones which have swam through hundreds Of dry mouths and beggarlips. It is best to decide that I won't give you the satisfaction Of two pages, a loving couple of salted nothings. If I did, you would stumble over the edge in a fit of rapture. I decided to sleep again, with the weight gifted To your martyry back.