Dear reader,

I've not addressed you for quite a while.
You see, I've closed myself off.
Completely. I've handed myself over
to the crooks of television and the dealers
that pass by the street on occasion.

I'm living a sort of hybrid life,
melodramas in my spaced-out mind,
whilst inactivity spreads like algae
across the pond of ***** laundry
and cigarette papers, to the curtained window;
all sunlight extinguished.

This is no excuse to disregard others,
but life gets polluted as I'm sure you know,
and in the vanity of my own displeasure
I have recently conceded to hibernation;
thawing out my near-frozen, cynical heart.

To you, with all my perishable inexpertise,
I offer this:

That to your eyes, I falter - dying for attraction.
To the rhythm of moving lips over words,
I fall. To the plague of tomorrow, I stutter,
but in companionship of readership, I survive.

Oh reader, in your cerebral mist,
please hear this, my heady call:

Of bleak and miserable Novembers,
the threat of life impaired,
of times when all love is but sorrow,
of times when you're barely there.

Please, still sweeten at the sunlight,
rejoice in your daily waking bloom,
for, in you lies my love of a lifetime,
for, in you is the writing on my tomb.

All my love,
Someone Or Other