Dear *,

Try to understand glass wounds from
broken beer bottles and bitter secrets
of scattered memories whispered
almost delicately from lace like
dancing shadows waiting on the beaches
in Venice for innocent passers by
to miss and muse from

aren't always so easy to take. And
remember how you promised to wake
me up from the creases between sleep
and death when everything was fixed
again, but you didn't so it shouldn't matter
that I'm gone now.

You had your chance to save me,
you did nothing. Now's your chance to
grieve, please don't cry for me.
This was not my doing as I always
intended it to be.

Try to understand that ghosts can only
wander so far before they linger
back home and stories can only live
so long as they are still told to eager
listeners moments away from being
tucked safely into bed as dreams make
their way into the room

awaiting the innocent bliss of a child's
sound slumber. Yes, I know its a bad
comparison for you, but it's all I've got,
I will return, so please just

try to understand.