and prayers
on the steamed glass
of the shower.
the company of death
never ceases to weigh
heavy on our souls;
some poet asshole said that.
one can never be sure
if it is good poetry, bad comedy,
or sacrilegious hollow prayer,
but I miss you.
I dry off,
and watch the message fade,
up into the forgotten fugazi,
the ether of being.
I write it loud, again,
here, and you read it
wherever you are;
in your head.
I'll be in Louisville
later next year;
I already have a ticket,
but I hope/pray.
I see you.
I know you see me.
But I know you don't see
how hard I dream.
Leaving little messages
for you all over the wide world—
even this, here—
is a fine middle ground of gratitude.