To Whom it May Concern,
Forgive me for writing unsolicited poetry about you. It’s just you bring out the John Keats in me (some would say without the talent). I know I lack decorum. Is it that insane that I want to buy you flowers? Ruminate on your good looks? Try and capture your wit and grace in mad verse?
I may never walk beside you in the night, but you’re still my favorite scar/ star. My poetry longs to stir your breath, knowing in reality you are an inert thing. I look for any form of self justification to keep holding on. This will only end in tears. But still I turn to pen, to paper, to assuaged you. I hope my words are a benediction to your being. I long to neither save nor condemn you but merely lace your altar with beauty.
Your lightning holds no promise of rain, only frost. Yet, just like a misguided dove, I keep flying in the wrong direction. I’m not concerned with the cold. I’m like the wind, a contradiction. I never can right my mind for long. How do I scourge indecisiveness from my heart? I’m stuck in perpetual twilight. Nothing can be salvaged. My soul should dream no further, but it does, and I do. You’re a part of my weather now. Your humidity is felt inside of me.
I must close this letter and get back to my life. It’s time to dance and stumble around with shadows. But first, I’ll look out the window and see the dry leaves stirring and shaking as they fall to the ground, and imagine you. One last time. One more time.