Tears are blinding as the page is filled,
with words written, full of meaning,
all in pursuit of wishing you well.
Our paths are distraught,
jutting in different directions,
disrupted by poor choices,
and fitting consequences.

No matter how fitting,
nothing has ever hurt more,
to know you'll be gone kills me.
With the exception of possible visits,
It's possible I'll be nearly 17 by the time
of your reentrance into this crazy,
ever-changing life.

A life where my only correspondence now
with the woman called mother,
is through letters tearstained.
I send them anyway,
knowing they'll be written
without the presence of moisture,
in the corners of my eyes.