I never knew you, but I filled in
all the gaps with what I hoped for.
Both our hands shake just the same
when we are putting down our words
against the page.
Even in that description I am reliant
on the impressions of second hand
assumptions based in slightly better
context than my own. They ring
the bell and hear a deepened tone.
I worry about what was lost with your
retreat to where the line is drawn.
I know the song but I don’t have the skill
to play it on the keys so mangled from
the fall of thirty stories.
I wonder in this stinging stress what your
best guess would be towards our tomorrow?
You standing on the gravel driveway
saturated against brown celluloid the only
way I can picture you.
Did you think about the future or am I the one
obsessing with the past?
Teleporting Typewriter 