(no subject)

[sgriobhaiche]

the ghosts in my mailbox
haunt me with compultions
to email the dead
and ask them
what they drempt of
before
and what they dream of
now
I wouln't know what
if anything to say
about my life
and their discreet lack thereof
though not so discreet
in some cases
where the absence is felt,
like a brutal ache
how repetitive of me
for everyone knows
what it is like to grieve
mourn, ache with melencholy rememberances
Perhaps I would write him
of my confusion
my rage at his choice
perhaps i would tell her
how i wished, fervently
for more between us
than platitudes and cold
perhaps I will just send
an empty form to the nothing
and wait for a response