I wrote you letters in my head. I wanted to write you
many letters, and then publish them,
and then buy them in a bookstore
as if I had never even seen them before,
and take them home,
and sit in my chair, a desk lamp by my elbow
and a cat curled by my feet.
And when I would read these letters,
from this girl to that boy, I would learn
something I didn’t even know was there.
I still don’t know what it is I would learn,
but I would understand it,
and it would belong to the world,
and I could let it go.
But I am already forced to let it go.
The world tells me to let it go.
And sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night,
sick with grief, and I look out the window,
stare at the woods and the sky
and try to send you messages.
I like to imagine that you get them,
but I know you don’t really get them.
They just rise past the stars,
through the clouds, clouding the stars
and the moon, choking the sky,
turning it all to mist.