Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem


I missed the window of my telling
you who you are. My greatest
talent, f*cked too thin to mend,
or maim when it mattered most.

I’m not mad anymore, just sifting
through the wreckage of my gift—
this heft of language, all I ever said,
only salve on hand to save us, too often 
out of stock.

Words flawless on paper, I fell limp
spilling from a broken mouth.
Throwing spells at your functional illiteracy,
believing an explanation could level 
our podium standings, but it never did.

I never do.
Even though I’m perfect on paper.

You never do what I want, either.
Imagining Sisyphus content
was the death of us.
And we have died nine million times
attempting the trick of it—
a compromise so smug, filled with hubris
enough to spare every kind, 
every one of us, where no one dies,
unless that’s how they wanted
their story to end. 

Our story is ending. 
What else is there?

A rock and a hill, a present mishandled 
until it becomes a burden. 
Until we've learned the weight of words 
won’t hold us, slip, slipping away 
again and again, and I’m there
hauling myself through the unwritten 
spaces you didn't even notice, you left.

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