Dear Babyface




I miss you.
I can't get you off my mind.
Lately the world has felt so quiet,
Like I'm hearing it through your ears,
Buried some 6 feet beneath Chicago snow,
Muffled miles below Lake Michigan.

I'm holding on to this anger,
It's hardly comfortable but it's so warm.
I don't think you deserve forgiveness,
Even though you dished it out in such generous servings at a rate that would make anyone a diabetic.
Forgiveness is too sweet
And I, too bitter.
Your final words weren't even grammatically correct, for God's sake.
You were a poet, you're not allowed to end on a mistake as poor as that.
I demand you come back to correct it,
I'll even supply the white out.
Please.

Here's that poem you always asked me for.
I hate that you had to go to such great lengths for me to finally write it.
I'm so sorry.
I'm sorry we never discussed our apparent mutual love for Kerouac.
I'm sorry I was joking about hiding you in my freezer that one time.
I'm sorry I never read that book you gave me, you told me I needed more life in me first. I'll buy a copy tomorrow, I promise.
I'm sorry I was selfish, 
I'm sorry I'm still callous,
I'm sorry I couldn't live up to your standard of light and love.
Even in your own admission of defeat, you found a way of making the world brighter.
I'm sorry I didn't ever follow suit.
I'm sorry for talking as if my apologies or actions would have made a difference.
I'm trying to be better, I really am.


Please forgive, I'll try to do the same.


'Death has never been one of those things I worry about. When I'm called, I'm called.'
- Tom Loconti

You weren't meant to call yourself.


No comments:

Post a Comment