When I write you poems it is always type delete type delete. Is there anything left to say? We know nothing gold stays. What I felt for you was childhood, pure and then left out in the rain. Playing cards and porcelain dolls. The ones you aren't allowed to touch because they look like art. Mother said so. In high school I left a book under Nate Donmoyer's window and he found it under two feet of snow nine months later. "I was too late getting to this," he said. Years later I would go to his first show and find pages from my old sketch pad framed around the stage. "I found these in a DC garbage three years ago," he would explain. "I wonder whose they are." Time is an ocean of snow and she always retreats enough to show us what has been hidden beneath her wide body.
I loved you like that book. It was called "The Stranger."