sight_unseen
You miss me. I can hear it in your voice.
Every time you wish me kisses for my birthday, are you wishing me yours?
Will this tether we have ever let us go?
I need to breathe in September.
Missing you while awake and while sleeping won’t let me.
I miss you too.
That’s the great divide.
September comes yearly and with it comes you.
Miss me less next year.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
I’m thirty now and soon you will be too.
I can’t help but be eager for these Septembers to change, for September to just be a month again.
I’ll be thirty-something when the melancholy and the memories fade.
I’ll hate it but I’ll need it.
Maybe one year soon we’ll skip a birthday. By we, I mean you, because you’ll have to miss mine first.
My thirty-something birthday can celebrate forgetting and forgiveness.
One less text message is all it takes.
So I’ll be here, waiting to turn thirty-something.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
It’s a wonder; here I am again and so is September.
My heart beats for you and for melancholy even in my sleep.
I’m restless and homesick with memories of you.
You messaged again, consistency.
I can’t help but miss you and miss me too. I’ve lost who I am and who I was but you know me. Message some more and maybe you’ll bring me back to myself.
I can’t still my thoughts or my dreams except to drag this pen across paper and hope the words convey the nostalgia.
My heart feels bruised again.
I’ll probably be right here, with dreams and a pen, every September; writing again.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
I can’t control dreams,
But if I could,
I would steer them away from you.
I have no desire to dream of utopia but wake and live in reality.
Dreams bring me to you, to us; to our other dimension, as we used to say.
The dreams aren’t real but the feelings I awake with sure are.
If I can only have moments of you in dreams, perhaps I should stay asleep so I can keep dreaming.
Alas, I cannot control dreams.
.
.
.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
I’ve been trying to write about myself but all that comes easily to paper is you.
That’s all I have left.
Maybe if I write enough, I can let go.
With each swoop and loop, may the ink take away the knowing and the missing, the feeling and the lingering.
Take the vividness and the longing.
May all the memories be the ink that comes to dry across pages instead of tears that streak across my cheeks.
I don’t really want to forget.
I can never really forget.
I’m certain that eventually all pens run out of ink.
Here’s to writing and to hoping.
.
.
.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
It doesn’t matter.
I’d do anything for you.
These lines we’ve crossed,
The lines we will cross.
They do matter.
We put ourselves here.
And yet,
They don’t matter.
We wish we could believe ourselves
And our lies.
I’d cross an ocean for you
And every line we could dream of.
That’s what love is.
It follows us still.
Love has drawn the lines,
And love crosses them.
.
.
.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
11:04pm
9:59pm
00:05am
10:27pm
Relegated to darkness; our connection never allowed to see the light of day.
Thank the guilt for that, perhaps circumstance.
We burned too brightly then, now, so much less deserving.
Still we linger, clinging to that promise of darkness.
Never chancing dusk; never daring morning.
I’ll take it.
I’ll take any time with you.
The stars we traded from sunlight will have to do.
I just wish us many more starlit nights and moonbeams, my love.
May the darkness hold us close and cherish our secrets as much as we do.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
My pen bleeds onto paper ever September.
Melancholy is my muse.
To millions, this month is a beginning; to me, it’s always a goodbye.
The seasons change and drag us along with them. As the leaves turn from green to yellow, and then to brown, my mood begins the same change.
Perhaps I’ll always be sad in the fall; who wouldn’t be if they’d lived the same autumns that I have.
Missing, always. Madness too.
The leaves dry, as do my tears.
I wish to crumple up with them on the ground and let September pass me by while my pen bleeds me dry.
Hello, September.
Goodbye.
.
.
.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
Consistency from you is eternally painful, yet I wish, hope, dream, and pray for it anyways.
I hate that I need it but I love that even now, you never let me down.
Steadiness is your nature.
I wonder where I’d be without a dose of it every September.
You, still the only one who remembers my birthday year after year.
This one kindness sustains me and keep my confidence alive.
Patience is not something I possess but I never have to wait for you; you always show up for me.
I’ll be waiting for you next year; consistency.
.
.
.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
Here I am, hoping, with my terracotta heart.
Hoping, once again, that one fall will be too little to send shards of my heart flying through the air.
Too many times I’ve gathered the pieces together and swept the floor.
The only cleaning ritual that ends without satisfaction.
There is no relief at the sight of neat piles and clean floors, only the knowledge of the work that now looms overhead.
Reconstruction.
Reconfiguration.
Refortification.
All so I can sit and hope again.
This time maybe I’ll wish too, with my terracotta heart.
.
.
.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
Sight Unseen 