Some nights are for forgiveness.
I can only let the mail
pile up for so long.
Then I have to open the notes
I’ve been sending myself
since who knows when,
and really drink them in.
Notice the handmade paper,
the choice of twine,
the careful hand-writing,
the postmarks from places
I never knew I’d been.
How did I get there?
When was I lost at sea?
I realize…
a distance has been opened,
and it’s measure is a sinking grief.
What good is being king
if you do not bless your subjects
with your holy presence?
The messages speak
using the only means available.
That strange body symptom,
that visiting sense of futility,
the disgust at my own needy efforts,
the pain of circumstance,
the fatigue of striving
for the one change that never comes—
these are the avenues desire walks.
I leave my perch to walk amongst them,
find my missing pieces,
wrap my arm around them
and hold them close.
Tickle their noses.
Shelter them from distance
and tell them stories
until they fall asleep in my embrace.
Some nights are for forgiveness,
for abandoning plans and
taking myself down to the water,
down by the sea to whisper
all night long to those parts of me
still far beyond the horizon clinging
to their little rafts in the wind,
desperate and confused,
wondering where I’ve gone.
This way…
Over here…
I love you…
