melted

this is late(ly)

it's a day post - but the mail hasn't come in yet, so i slide into your messages. you have this way of tripping me guilty, my shoelaces knotting fabric tears as i'm torn from the ground, tearing up at the tear between us. you and your boys, you patch me up like a ragdoll. i've always felt helpless but safe in your arms. i want, just for one day, to talk to you truly. is this what pinocchio felt? sure, i am more ratty rags than a felted raggedy ann, but what's in a name? in yours, there is a storm. familiarity, like the eye of it. your eyes are always the brightest when they call you ours. you unwind and in your fake relaxation you create, repurposing old skeins into new dreams. i miss you yet it feels as if we've never met (yet it feels as if i've known you for a lifetime) but there are so many run-ragged that i'd rather zig-zag and keep you at a distance, watching as the line goes out the door. you've always been a hot commodity, fiery, lucrative, glowing. my handwriting doesn't stand up to your sparks, and passionate embers swallow up all my words and toss them into the air. maybe it's better this way. the wind carries me home and i know that even if my song is to drift astray, you'll be able to create a path yourself. it's a day post-you, and everyone's been telling me to give thanks. so here i am, late. asking for forgiveness, for i have no thanks to give which you have not already heard. i am forever enamored with everything you represent, i reckon that reconnaissance for my corpse won't be necessary after it is tread upon by your core corps, fans blowing steam rather than wind. there is something more, perhaps, in a hope whispered across oceans. i know you can find me as i do you: everything. now and again. sooner, rather.
later. love you.