What you and I had together can’t even really be called history;
it was more like volumes of feelings and electricity
that we couldn’t translate even a single paragraph of.
I guess I’m hoping that this letter will somehow make its way
to you across miles of sea, but maybe that’s only a distant hope
for catharsis. While we’re on the topic of water, have you ever
thought that making waves crash is the only way the ocean has
of speaking to people on the beach? And all the time it’s speaking
and we’re doing everything but listening.
That’s the way it was with both of us, come to think of it.
It’s been months since we last spoke on the phone,
and to be honest, sometimes I dial every single digit of your number
except for the last one and listen to the dial tone
on the other end as a replacement for your voice.
It doesn’t really match up.
When we stopped talking, my eyelashes still kept wanting
to keep talking to your palms. I don’t think I’ll ever stop wishing
I could waltz with the tornado of your messed-up mind,
or skinny dip in that brilliant heart of yours, but then again
we always tried to blow out our feelings for each other
like candles on a cake. Except every time we did,
they were those trick candles, the kind that keep coming
back to life over and over again.
I wish you came with an insurance policy,
because there’s no guarantee I’m ever going to forget you.