UNTITLED TYPEWRITER POEM NO. FOUR

3

I am consistently failing myself,
and in doing so,
failing you.
I cannot speak.
I cannot write you a letter.
I must use a machine in order to free myself
from everything
you are to me.
And believe me,
you are all of it.
You are the leaves on the ground,
the leaves I once was.
You are the sunset I did not see.
You are every fallen moment
I could not catch and hold and soothe and bathe in my wonder.
And since letting you fall—
it pains me to have choices—
I have not been able to use my hands for any good.
Instead,
I fight myself in the mornings to wake,
I throw myself
at anyone other than you who can carry me home,
and I turn
over in the nights,
wishing I was warmer,
or maybe,
some nights,
that we were perfect strangers.
I thought I was strong,
but I can’t even hold my head up.
I can’t see you.
I can’t even say goodbye.
But I’m trying.

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