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how it could have been the two of you, together and not what wasn’t and never will be‽ ⋯ Have you ever thought it is out of date, to try, to wish and to know what could’ve been like‽ ⋯ Have you had the privilege of being shunned by someone who’s now amalgamated by a song without knowing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
