Reader: An Apology

By now, I guess you're actually sick

of hearing from me, but I don't

think so. I know I don't exactly

know you, but I kind of do.

And I keep talking to you--

writing to you, that is.

It's just that I really get

that you get me, like gut

get me. I'm sort of in love with you.

I can say things like

you speak the disquiet

of our dark cupboards, or

you've memorized an olecranon

out of existence, parched

the wet center of pomegranate.

I can say things like that,

and you don't hate me for it.

You keep listening to my mind

listening to itself, and I never

get the sense you're thinking

hurry up please, it's time.

The you you are right there,

I don't know, I just want to keep

talking to you like this

because you know that sometimes

I'll slip in a word like burnish

or sycamore, the way I want

to slip my hand in yours,

and you always take it,

no matter how much

I've taken you for granted.