Dark Poetry Prose Poetry March 17, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

3-17-03 monday 8:20pm brick NJ

writing you a letter as i often do. the kind never sent. though it seems none ever reach you. writing to you as i often will. the days and nights shove themselves into these empty lives, but somehow they grow emptier still.

i've told you how i feel. more than i'd like to recall. i've told you things i always thought belonged solely to these pages. that they were the only one who could hear them and still listen to me again.

i've told you. i have written. myself. my everything. my heart like a spotch of ink upon these hypothetical pages. i've written. i still do. most nights without requite. most nights for no other reason than that there are still things unsaid.

i never would've known it could take so long to say so few words. i never would've guessed that one little love could garner these endless verses.

writing you as i often have - the end does not show itself. it never has. writing these letter never meant to be read. even if your eye could see them i know your heart would not even take a glance.

writing again diligent in my pining for whatever at this moment cannot be mine. writing as i always have. constructing a life out of empty pages. making poetry out of chanceless chances.

i've written before. i may write again. i've written to you sometimes when i shouldn't. and some thoughts maybe i should've sent. but i write now because the writing is forgetting why. i write now because i feel this strange feeling. something changing in the dynamic between. as if soon i won't be able to write for you anymore. as if something will soon make this copdependecy real no more.

writing you a letter as i have been given to do. the kind never sent. though even those that are, never manage to reach their intended. writing once again on the brink of a love barely breathing. from the center of a life that has never known anything beyond its own love. atop the apex of all my deepest secrets i look down and see what i feel for you. i look down and see why there are still so many miles between. why there will always be.

i write not to beckon. not to claim or to question. i write now with purging my only reason. i write the same as i have so many times before, but the words so different. without a want to love now as it still tugs on them. i write as you've seen so many times before. mostly unsent, but occasionally a few passages will slip through to your world. though it seems they only orbit, never intersect. like the moon to the earth. the tide to the moon. they are drawn to .and at the same time still pull. like a year without months, they are whole and still incomplete. i write. i always have. even before you. but now i see the words mean nothing outside my mind. now i see even the words i send never reach their destination. even the one i give away, they just come back to me the same as when they left. they can't reach you anymore than i can.