lamdalamdalamda

dear...,
i wrote a poem for you, and tore it up, because it meant nothing. i can't write anymore, i just draw words. pictograms of the impossible. i left them everywhere; on ashes, on moth wings, on voltages, and the crushing of salt. i burned them and ate them with the day's dust. transparent ogling objects. i reached out to touch your elbow, and you backed forward. i saw myself, near weeping, filming myself and other pulsing lights. we drank ruthlessly and blinded ourselves on death, visual transfusion, current, and dusted snow. we drank, and listened to my envorinments. the hum was low, steady, and burning with error. we drank, and our bodies took the shape of morse code. binary. dissolving, projections of ourselves shifting and fading into walls. i filmed myself, with white breath and floating eyes. i know i'm forgetable, you don't have to remind me.
dear...,
i ended it the way i started it. so i would never have to finish it. so i would'nt have to write another one.