"We hardly speak any more."
I know it's true,
I hardly speak at all.
We used to often talk,
staying up late, letting
our words play their games.
She asked if I'd rather
live alone on an island --
in complete solitude --
or be trapped in an apartment,
only able to watch people walk by.
I said I'd rather watch the people walk by;
at least then I could pretend that happy
people still existed.
Today it feels like I'm in that apartment,
watching people walk around me.
They don't seem happy.
I smile at them;
they never smile back.
I wonder if something's wrong with me.
I stopped talking when I started writing.
I already spelled everything out on paper,
and the words never crawl back into my mind.
If those words ever get back home,
I'll tell 'em all how I feel:
One:
You can't help anyone with words,
who needs something done.
A sentence about your love
means nothing when you're
twenty-seven hundred miles away.
Two:
Strangers are more alluring than
people you know closely;
that, my dear, is why I'm terrified
of getting any closer to you.
From a distance, you're so beautiful.
Three:
Sure, we spent a few weeks cuddled up
in your room; but your lifestyle is the reason
that I fled from Southern California.
I don't want things.
Four:
He's just going to end up killing you.
One instance of abuse should be enough
to send you packing. You crawled back for more.
I understand -- too well -- the lies that get you trapped.
I keep waiting for that phone call.
Five:
A woman should never be a reason
to abandon your old family;
although I see how her children
are your chance for redemption.
Six:
I wish we talked more often;
more than once every few months.
You're intelligent and articulate,
and the hour or two we spend
(not often enough)
fills me with hope for the world.