Memo for Morning.
Dear morning,
I've yet to talk to you or even look you in the eye. Yet, I feel it necessary that we console our spats and call this a truce. You see, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately and my minds been a blur. Grenade explosion, mine seething, projectile hammering: it's all I've been through. Not really, but something like that. My decisions have been all my own but I still wonder if they're right or even plausible. Has this all been a dream? Have I yet to fall out or wake up?
It seems that while those X's lost on the boxes spread my calendar I am slowly shrinking. I'm losing my consciousness because I know that all that seems to wait for me is summer in the east. Fuckin' east. In summer I mean endless treks across barren cornfields, the blasts of the humid east coast air and water, burritos for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, windows misty while the august sun sets, my age blossoming in wrinkles of apathy and reflection, missing holding someone's invisible hands, and no bed for three months. The way I see it, the worst part of a hospital is the waiting room. Give me something to hope for morning. Give me something to wake up to before I leave.
Your long lost friend,
Henry
I've yet to talk to you or even look you in the eye. Yet, I feel it necessary that we console our spats and call this a truce. You see, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately and my minds been a blur. Grenade explosion, mine seething, projectile hammering: it's all I've been through. Not really, but something like that. My decisions have been all my own but I still wonder if they're right or even plausible. Has this all been a dream? Have I yet to fall out or wake up?
It seems that while those X's lost on the boxes spread my calendar I am slowly shrinking. I'm losing my consciousness because I know that all that seems to wait for me is summer in the east. Fuckin' east. In summer I mean endless treks across barren cornfields, the blasts of the humid east coast air and water, burritos for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, windows misty while the august sun sets, my age blossoming in wrinkles of apathy and reflection, missing holding someone's invisible hands, and no bed for three months. The way I see it, the worst part of a hospital is the waiting room. Give me something to hope for morning. Give me something to wake up to before I leave.
Your long lost friend,
Henry
posted by Henry at 11:37 AM
1 Comments:
Dearest Henry,
The horizon is unreachable. It comes alive only with my glowing touch. Do not close your eyes during the darkness. What you seek: it waits on you, openly, with all exactness. It is already laid out before your feet.
Sincerely,
morning
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