2004-01-11 at 3:45 p.m.
I wonder what I would write to you if I drafted the letter, what I would construct to explain this strange mix of empathy and frustration. I wonder what you would think of me, my cluttered bookshelves, my scrawled handwriting, the way I sit in the dark and listen to the quiet, I wonder how you would register my paradoxes, my contradictions, my places of tension.
We don't talk around anything anymore. We don't dodge the words. To sleep and awake, only to talk again, I'm drunk on your words, your verbs are the air around me, your adjectives are etched onto my lined palms, I'm inhaling you, filling something inside with what is outside, their remnants swirl around, dissolving quickly, like the last taste of a throat sweet.
You can ask me the current state of anything. I can talk circles around the question, dizzy you with not-answering. I wonder if this is what I'm supposed to be learning.
sketch:
Surrender the idea
That every poem
Is for you.