Dear You I have abandoned,
Which is many of you. And most singularly, YOU. I am sorry. I am wasted on the daily things but trying to climb out of the tree-house of houses in the city of must-do’s. My heart misses you. It misses, most importantly, me. Where I am, there you are.
We are in a forest with bears and tea-time and light bulbs in the limbs of each other and their trees. Our trees. Two skips over, a desert sunset next to a Georgia beach and a girl with moss in her skirt, laughing. We are there. I am there. You are.
In this place it is true what we say to each other. We do not just pass along hello’s and forgive over and over for the unanswered email. There are no wires between us. I think and you hear it. Unless of course you want my handwritten note with stamps licked by me at midnight just after the tea has cooled and I smell of cinnamon from the bubble-bath. Poetry in my hair. Then there will be letters between us. But for affection, not necessity.
The child knows so much of this world inside us. The child still skips with map in hand to the tea parties with bears and the lemon-aid hidden in rocks. Break it open. It flows. But I have forgotten You. Me. These things.
I have so many people in my life across cities and oceans that I miss and think of daily, though never write back. I used to write them poems, though they may not have known they were poems for them, written with them in mind. But I do not do that anymore, either.
I write, sometimes, for me, a burst, an image. To heal a pain in a “someone’s” heart. Or I write because, this is what I think They want. Who sit in their chairs and pass out packets of money gathered from others desperate to see their name in gloss.
But I have forgotten about You. And the You inside me. And the You inside You.
For this I am sorry. I am lonely. Brokenhearted, more like.
Freedom. It is in writing of bears licking the girls hair as they drink tea and watch themselves form circles around themselves from swing-sets in the Gulf of Mexico without any second thought of fear or doubt.