i.
i am not angry,
and i won't be.
how someone could stay mad at you
is a ******* mystery to me.

ii.
maybe
you were right,
and not everyone
is an enigma.
but i believe that you are.
i believe that we are.

iii.
i still have all your letters.

iv.
speaking of letters,
i've tried writing you one before.
but words and humans
do not often cooperate.

v.
i hope you start a new york jar again.
you won't.
but i hope you do.

vi.
i will not forget you.
i will think of you,
and i hope you think of me, too,
on those days when the sky is a shade too dark
and your soul feels a little bit too empty.

vii.
i know now
that i do not
have to do anything.

viii.
i love you.
past.
present.
future tense.
i love you.
and i know you love me.

ix.
i hope you see this.
someday.

x.
shakespeare once said
that life's but a walking shadow.
but i believe --
i know --
that you are destined for something greater.
you
are going to make it.

xi.
if, by some miracle,
i can find a word,
a song,
a quote,
anything,
to describe you,
to do you justice,
i will let you know.
i hope you'll do the same for me.

xii.
i'm sorry.
for everything.
i wish it didn't end up this way,
but it did,
and so i won't waste time complaining.
but truly,
i am sorry.

xiii.
someday
you'll find happiness.

xiv.**
and maybe,
if the stars align,
and the water's calm,
someday you'll find me, too.

(a.m.)

she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?

this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)