lately
i have found myself
thinking much
too much
about dark
and subterranean things:
bones and roots
and the lightlessness
down there,
silent and
tireless and
holding on,
forever
holding on.

i wake alone in the morning
to darkness
and rain

the coffee brews
in the other room
as i stare into a mirror
at a man no longer young,
hardly handsome,
but with a smile
worn well

it could have been easier
he says
at last

i know
i reply
but still…

it meant so much to me that
it meant so much to you

there isn’t a bone or muscle
inside your body
that isn’t supposed to be there

extrapolated outwards:
all that exists
is proper and
necessary

let it be,
just let it be

in the beginning
we were born
gods

but
in the end
every one of us
chose to be
a slave

like a bouquet of flowers
on a well kept grave
this love i carried
was useless.

If you ever find this letter
take careful note
how it was written in both
our hands.