there were so many things
I should have done,
but now there is nothing I can do;
each act of peace
is presented with desperation,
and a little bit less
of me, like letters,
lost in the mail.
each poem a short story
about a long war,
while I am still sending
SOS postcards from the frontline,
but each word is falling
on deaf internet ears.
each stamped VHS cassette case
is begging for her return poems,
as well as hoping
her family is safe
from each Kentucky tornado.
each unsigned book
mailed with media rate
along with the hope
that she reads them,
but knowing each one ends up
in the garbage.
each song a time machine
that smells like the back
of her neck,
which was kissed goodbye
in stairwells
before the battles began.
this is a war we cannot win,
and I am not mad at her;
I am mad at what happened,
and all I ask, each lonesome night,
is she please find me
before my death.
