It pains me to know that
you don’t read these anymore.
It is hard for me to write
them to anyone but you,
but they feel fake,
without purpose,
when the only eyes
that will read
are the ones I don’t
care about seeing them.

These come out by the dozen,
such is my disease,
but they come and fall
to ash on the page
like small bits of cigarette,
burning off and away
unto the endlessness of night.
These poems drift
and are lost like letters,
unaddressed and
left at the post,
between the cracks
and forgotten.