Dear Linda,
Remember that letter
I wrote you some years ago,
maybe not,
that it's all about the surprise?
We await that blossoming,
that revelation, an enlightening
just around the corner.
There's still time, I said.
I should have been more specific,
given examples so you'd know.
I had thought it to be
about finding, not losing yourself.
It was not about forgetting,
nor diminishment nor
the creep of darkness,
nor eternal slumber.
Did you misunderstand?
Wasn't I clear?
How you are forgetting your self,
and then I am forgetting you.
Who will remember back past now
who you were--sentient, empathetic,
spiritual, aesthetic, soulful.
Now you laugh after your every utterance,
repeated and repeated.
You fill the space of your coming nothingness
with sound, to fill your silences
or drown cacophonies, I don't know which.
You seep through black holes,
can't find your way back.
Withering connections
keep you from you,
you from me
and from the hope
of the surprise
that waits inside
the you flickering out.
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