So I never wrote a letter when I told everyone I would.
I had nothing to say then and nothing now.
I breathe vapour, pouring into the air, lifting, pirouetting; it's a thread
-a narrative read to her, body reposed, pillowed head,
lying down later in bed. Later now isn't later dead, it's before then.
I had hoped that you would write my letters, read them to me and
to my friends; handle my voice, my sound like a dust that travels
along highways of wind, zephyr whirlpool, you the ultimate listener.
The congregation of sound: letters read upon a silver salver, dipped
in dramatic timbre rose above the sheets they dove under before.
Lifted her legs like the crescent points of that cheesy moon, flakes
before the bedsheets, before there came my voice echoed in pencil.
Lines and lines. Lines and lines more. Lines and lines some more.
So I never wrote a letter when I told myself I would.
I had nothing to say then and nothing now.
