a conversation

ours usually seem one-sided.  you with your schooling and self-exile into symbols that others have written look at me and my haphazard life and apply those words to me.  to us.  you poke.  reactions ensued that confirmed theories you had in midnight revelations with only yourself as witness.  projecting your experiences or experiences you suppose me to have onto an us that never properly existed due to a lack of airplanes, money, and want.  for if either of us wanted we could have made a decent go of it.  but we didn't.  we conversed.  through alexander graham bell's invention we talked for hours.  sometimes a dialogue, other times a monologue. your voice lulling me to sleep. tears were shed on both sides, laughter, sighs and whispers through wires that traversed the miles we would not commit to. and yet i stay. you say we are drifting. that this is ending.  and maybe there is a next chapter and maybe there is not.  it does not make this any less real.  any less lovely for it's end.  you say you are killing me.  that i'm mostly gone.  and so i wait for the day, where i will pass you on the street and as an amnesiac, you will walk by, not knowing me any longer.

i have been writing your name as the moons pass.  the letters etched into former sycamore calms my heart. through first kisses, marriages, one night stands, heartbreak, laughter, entwined hands, tears, and butterflies, i write your name to calm my heart.