this is me writing to you

from the outskirts of this world

listen

hear the music this was written with.

love is a city raccoon crawling through the trash outside my door at night.

it is the last seven minutes before falling asleep.

the metaphor without meaning

and the poem without end.

the infinity within

- more monumental than time or space -

that has stabbed you one wound short of finishing the job.

the last sentence of a letter

far more important than anything else.

and the sound of the many rings on your fingers.

the rain on the roof

and the question i forgot to ask.

the things i didnt dare to do.

even my solitude,

my mantra.

perhaps...

i found something worth saying.

(yes, this is good)

you are the largest unknown prime number

and i am one.