I write it out in long hand,
before that smile. Our spirits span the miles
your presence left me longer. I forgot,
it matters not. I worship at your feet,
or at least switch out the soundtrack
in blood and tears: and all the while our fears
on an urban starry night
the heavy downpour, like clockwork,
except for their perfection.
Hungering for freedom from the wretched pain,
and smile and grin and laugh with joy untapped,
we wring our hands and weep, the punks we are.
The hereafter far surpasses the present.
A man carrying a large book on the outside –
we’d reap in joy what we had sown before –
and reasons for a friendship come and go.
The poems you’ve sent: they are my prayers, my hope,
though other things fall through the cracks of space.