As most of you know,

I am catastrophic.

And as most of you know,

I feel alone.

I see cobwebs collecting cluelessly in between the lines of your poems.

They age and sit and stay the same,
those poems from forever ago.

But aging is healthy, and time can be good,
what makes me sad is the static.

There are only ever old poems. Never new thoughts or feelings or the same thoughts and feelings strung and wrapped in different words.

It’s just cobwebs.

I used to read your poems religiously, I used to ponder what they meant.

But now I think I have my answers, and now I’m sure I’ve lost a friend.

What used help me cope has now become just a bigger reminder,

That everything I love will leave me in some way or another.

But I still read and I still write and I still think about the past

like a ghost in an old library reading only ancient texts

and I can’t conjure up the courage to say anything face to face

so I put it in a poem and I pray that you will find it.

Even if you do not write I pray that you still read.

Even if we do not talk I still put pieces of you into my words.

Even if we hate each other’s guts I still hope that you are happy

and I guess all I can really do is just keep on writing: