voicemail
hey, — you… — the sovereign of my poetry, ⋯
open your voicemail, for heaven’s sake;
you have several missed messages, —
(some are mine…);
did you forget you promised me
you’ll teach me the art of love…‽
⋯⋯⋯
(at a given moment, in a staccato manner, —
the inbox got a moral asset);
⋯⋯⋯
Have you ever longed for a certain person
who hadn’t had to be, but you thought how
it could have been the two of you, together
and not what wasn’t and never will be‽
⋯
Have you ever thought it is out of date, to try,
to wish and to know what could’ve been like‽
⋯
Have you had the privilege of being shunned
by someone who’s now amalgamated by a song
without knowing if its echo will turn up to bite
your ears’ ears, which fail of being apt to hear…‽
⋯⋯⋯
I miss you. I miss you like a forgotten verse,
uttered sublimely on what should have been,
as if you’re a poet who hankers to get in me
to write (without deducing) I might want you.
⋯
I miss you from some hypothetical time zone
of a nameless future, (just as bizarre as you),
where what we’ll be, could seem prophetically,
like a dream out of a dream to another dream.
⋯⋯⋯
hey, - you… ⋯ as well, - open your voicemail,
(for heaven's sake); I am the art of love, -
(did you forget my name…), - I am the music.
