I sent you a package
It is neither pertinent
Nor urgent
I don’t know if you’ll like it
But I sent it
For you
So shouldn’t that count?
I sent you a package
And the postage covered
The cost and
Your name
But I promise I wrote it
So shouldn’t that count?
I sent you a package
With a disconnected, corresponding
Note
After three drafts
An unstudied
Unimportant sentence and my
Summer address

I don’t know where to write about it
But sometimes,
At least once a month
My need to hear from you builds up
Into a stalker-ish urge,
From which I have no recourse
It is funny now to find how similarly our minds work
Though perhaps not funny at all
A little piece of myself that has become you
A series of mutual coincidences

Yeah.

Don’t you realize that it is this loneliness
That pushed me over the edge to start with
The sudden and complete desolation
Of being untouched and spoken to
Spoken for
Or touched but not spoken to?
I am incomplete and unfinished.
I am corruptible and unsatisfied.
I am weak and manipulable.

The only truth is that I am alone, and have been.
We must talk.

Would you forfeit individuality for permanence?

Undying as the stars, indefatigable as a black hole?  To have been someone else, to be someone else, to only, just for now, be yourself —  but always, to be?

Or would you prefer only ever to be your current self, to grow as old as old can be,  and then to cease?

Sentience, like mass should not be created
Or destroyed
Its mere existence should guarantee its extension
Transferring through different media
But never quite gone
Never completely gone
Without pain
Or regret
Or indecision.

Rapunzel,
If you had undone your locks,
I could have done more than scale your tower.
Rapunzel,
If you had offered your ‘cord,
I could have called on you in your bower.
Over your guard of stony distance,
Over your walls of strong resistance,
I could have said hello.