nobody writes love letters anymore
between dings and likes and clicks and whistles
our hearts are splayed on boring screens
and i’m supposed to tell you all
of the multitudes by which i love you
in 140 characters or less
in a brief “i love you” text
i don’t want to “@” you
i want to touch you
i don’t want to message
i want long form soul searching
in these short bursts, i can’t tell you anything.
i can’t tell you how, sometimes, in the middle of the night
i hear noises and i can’t tell if they’re coming from inside
or outside of my house or my room or my head
and when i am scared i wrap myself around my sheets and wrap my
blanket around me
and think hard for a placebo feeling of your arms on my back and
your gun on my nightstand.
i can’t tell you how, sometimes, in the early afternoon
i forget to take my meds and my legs will shake
and my eyes will go blank and my heart will bare knuckle box my sternum
and flittering lashes and fluttering fingers
dangle off of me like hanging branches
in a bluster
and in those moments, before i can walk to the cabinet
and pop my pills
i hold the big, rugged floral pillow on top of my body
close my eyes
and think of you telling me, “hey, it’s okay”
and sometimes it gives me the strength to slink off of the couch
and wobble to the kitchen.
i can’t tell you how, sometimes, when you’re gone
nothing fills the void where you used to sit
on the edge of my messy bed and tell me
that it’s okay that i got drunk again and maybe i’ll do better tomorrow
i have done better so many tomorrows to date
and i regret not spending one with you sooner.
i can’t tell you how when i think of home i think of nowhere
i can’t tell you how when i think of someday i think of nothing
i can’t tell you how much it means that
in these microcosms of time that i cannot visualize or trivialize or make sense of
where the clay won’t stick and the nails won’t enter
where there is only shimmering dust in a tiny tornado
and a lot of hope and mystery
i can’t tell you how much it means that you are around.

j.l.