A Letter
Hey,
He really misses you:
Those days I were cloy'd with sickness, my every breath seized with torment- he conjured a black delirium: th weightlessness of death. In those lonely morning possessions, he missed you.
Then there are those days I ran mile after vapid mile, till my nauseated lungs wheezed for air; till I surrendered to th tempestuous seaside affair- to find my whole again. Those freedom nights where most his fears were assuaged, he thought of you fondly too.
Unaware of th moment anymore, I have traveled th expanse of space & time alone. Whilst he- my lapsing soul- prison'd indefinitely in th enamored romance that once was; bobbing in th middle of th Pacific Blue that stretches out as far as th sun-baked eye can see: an endless world of ocean & sky with nothingness in sight- no reference points to tell him he has gone nowhere ever since. Not that he cares, really, as long as you are there with him. He misses you every day.
Love,
Th grid on which he hangs.
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