Untitled (2/6/10)

(Something super recent. I'm not bold enough to name my audience, but sometimes its nice to speak directly to someone. Who are we kidding, I do this a lot, put things on the page I can't quite say out loud...)

(Consider this a whisper,
just a secret in your ear.)
I've been writing to you.
Not here on these lines,
and not in letters tucked into
addressed envelopes with 63cent stamps.
I've been leaving you messages
in places you won't likely find.
Places just enough off your path
to be safe.

There is a drawer hidden in and old desk
in BrewHaHa on Main street.
It's a drawer filled with scraps of paper,
stories and poems and confessions and love letters,
of which I only read a few.
What I left there i signed 'a'.
In a bar on Bowery
I wrote on a stall, first
some silly wisdoms and then
a question to you. I won't ask it now.
You still wouldn't answer.
And then in a short hallway
in a student filled cafe off 4th street
I rejoiced at the [serendipitious] fact
that I had a sharpie,
and I tagged the graffetti/sticker
covered wall with our initials,
in a hopelessly optimistic attempt
to somehow keep us together, in the same space,
for as long as permanent marker
avoids fading on paint.
This message in a bottle strategy
is silly, continually garnering me nothing.
Except the satisfaction of making visible
the things I still can't say to you.