i told you the verymost secret truth to ease the parting blow. so you'd forgive me that the only blow was parting, that the bookshelf wasn't big enough for us both. when i told you all those other truths you thought i'd be the leatherbound dictionary that stays the digital age but i let you in on the verymost secret one and now you're not so sure, huh. you're not so sure. i'm not so sure. the definition marked by post-it is a word that is not officially recognized. the english language never was so much my thing; i stumbled all over it in nerves and inescapable sincerity that was too close together on the cookie sheet and came out wrong and stomach-aching. i stumbled all over in nerves. i roll back my shoulders and i say "good, how are you!" and i make lists and lists and lists to plan my heartwarming. i sit in the sun and i write on my hand how much i love the sun but my hand doesn't say anything back, that was your thing. the sun might not be real, now, even though it's warm. 

i am really very good, i think. but i don't know unless i tell you. what i tell you might be all that is real, and that might be why the verymost secret truth is all that blurs my vision now. i roll my shoulders back and i say that i am really very good. and they say, good! but the parting blow was all i could give you, so i can't tell you good, and the secret truth is the one that stays, and the digital age crawls forward, and the leather cracks, and i miss you.