I've been writing very little for the past
three years or so.
The words don't come as often
I'm feeling no inspiration
I no longer think very deep thoughts
about not much at all.
Almost everything I've written has been about
how I can no longer write.
For the last six months,
We have been (re)building a relationship of sorts.
Stepping very carefully around wives
significant others
mutual friends, and
the very large, shockingly purple
elephant in the room.
I'm still sending you my words,
and you're still replying.
(Is that healthy? I'm just wondering.)
You have set up boundaries, mainly:
you will only remain in my life if I
attempt to sound sane.
No longer in love with you.
If I talk about how great my life is.
I can handle that.
It's mainly true.
One month ago I packed up a bag filled with my
inconsistencies, ingratitude, and incompetence,
put it in the mail,
and sent it to you.
[Have you received it yet? Perhaps
I should have used more stamps.]
You were quiet for a while, then
made no mention of
receiving a three trillion ton package
with my return address in the upper left-hand corner.
Please forgive me for my moment of weakness when
I was insane.
Still in love with you.
And my life wasn't great.
I used to have something meaningful to say at the end because
I used to feel that there was one.
three years or so.
The words don't come as often
I'm feeling no inspiration
I no longer think very deep thoughts
about not much at all.
Almost everything I've written has been about
how I can no longer write.
For the last six months,
We have been (re)building a relationship of sorts.
Stepping very carefully around wives
significant others
mutual friends, and
the very large, shockingly purple
elephant in the room.
I'm still sending you my words,
and you're still replying.
(Is that healthy? I'm just wondering.)
You have set up boundaries, mainly:
you will only remain in my life if I
attempt to sound sane.
No longer in love with you.
If I talk about how great my life is.
I can handle that.
It's mainly true.
One month ago I packed up a bag filled with my
inconsistencies, ingratitude, and incompetence,
put it in the mail,
and sent it to you.
[Have you received it yet? Perhaps
I should have used more stamps.]
You were quiet for a while, then
made no mention of
receiving a three trillion ton package
with my return address in the upper left-hand corner.
Please forgive me for my moment of weakness when
I was insane.
Still in love with you.
And my life wasn't great.
I used to have something meaningful to say at the end because
I used to feel that there was one.
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