I hope this poem finds you well
I hope this poem reminds you of how I learned my ABC's
by tapping out Morse Code on your spine when I couldn't sleep at night
I hope this poem is a way to soothe my bellyache at the thought
of your eyeteeth and how someone else's mouth once tasted them like me.
This morning even the kitchen was missing you; the hardboiled eggs
grew soft with grief and the toast melted into buttery loss,
but let me tell you something that I remember: my mother fed us
bedtime stories of vampires that couldn't be killed with garlic nor stake,
and I like to think that our story is like this too,
that it will always be reincarnated into another form
but never ever die- into a rabbit or two clouds that refuse to part,
and did you know that I never feared monsters under the bed,
because being separated from you was terrifying enough?
I hope this poem finds you jaywalking or mountainbiking
or eating sandwiches with a complete stranger in the deli
we used to inhabit back when the only exhales we regretted
were the ones that didn't contain each other's names.
I hope this poem finds you on the subway to Manhattan
to an apartment filled with colorful yarn rugs and two cats
and the life we could have lived always chilling out
on the backstep like an ornery ghost.
I hope this poem is part apology note, part love letter, part goodbye,
because I can't really tell if it's any of those things
but just know that I hope someday we actually end up together
even if it's just in someone else's memories.
And it was worth a share, along with an update of my much-alive-ness.