I do not know who I am writing to anymore.
Faces blur to pages to chapters
of the never ending story that I write
as I walk through the waves of indifference.
Sea foam splashes over drying ink
and curling parchment in ways that
blend background and foreground into
nonsensical images of insanity.
I write blank letters left with open
spaces and unfilled lines waiting for
a name or a pronoun or even a shimmering
idea of who to place there.
The final line is always the worst
with "love" and "yours always" and
"sincerely" hardly meant before
the name I know even less than yours:
my own.