Dear X

I got your letter

yesterday.

I can tell that you tore

out a page of your

notebook, not neatly.

Blue smudges

where you folded

too many times, maybe

too nervous, your palms

too sweaty

like always.

Sideways slanted

writing. Wrong way.

Leftys don’t live as long,

you know.

A casual greeting,

the nonthreatening “hey”.

You’ve always

snuck up on me.

You’re getting ready

to say

something

big.

You write as slow

as you talk.

I can wait.

I’m good

at that.

You are all over this page.

“I’m sorry

I know

I’m sorry

I didn’t

I couldn’t

I want

I love

I’m sorry”

I’m not in this letter much.

“You are

You’re not

You said

You”

I’m glad that you

are sorry.

You’re right

you waited

a little too long.

You’re right

we’re living in

“a goddamn

big

world”.

It is big.

So you can’t tell me

that I mean the world

to you.

How huge-

ly unfair

when you know

I

do

not

feel

the

same.

There’s too much

ahead

and behind

and between

us.

We missed.