To Whom It May Concern
Today, it is a sunny Thursday morning in April, and my body
aches like it does when a rainstorm hits, and I am regrettably
bitter about it because in this very moment in time,
I am still waywayway too aware
of this world.
My horoscope tells me that it’s about time to get rid of some of
the baggage that I’ve been lugging all around town with me.
But (apparently) I haven’t quite
figured out where to
put it all yet.
And it’s times like these where I try to fool myself into thinking that
I’m actually good at things – regular things that other people
are especially and typically ordinarily good at.
Like, writing poetry or scrapbooking, or bigger-deal-things like
showing up to work on time.
And I’ve been waiting to tell you this without blinking for once,
and I’ve been actively searching for that relief everyone keeps
saying is buried deep in that one place that’s also hidden
underwater somewhere. So if you could feel the
blood in my veins, you’d know what I mean.
I’m anxious to feel the exact moment when the morning sunlight
hits your cheek and your irises slowly dilate with the rhythm of
your heartbeat, and I would memorize it all so perfectly,
you would’ve thought it was just a simple feeling
to give away.
But it’s impossible to sneeze while keeping your eyes completely
open and I may be just a little pessimistic about some stuff
every now and again, and I know that it’s been
a really long while since we’ve touched,
but you still look the same to me.
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