Dear No One,
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 star. My poetry longs to stir your breath, knowing in reality you are an inert thing. I’ve looked for you in ;others, only to be left 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. Yet, just like a dove, I keep flying in your direction. I’m not concerned with the elements. I’m like the wind, a contradiction. I never can right my mind for long. 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 leaves stirring, shaking as they fall to the ground, and imagine you. One last time. One more time.
Dear No One, I hope to find you soon