Write naked. That means to write what you would never say. Write in blood. As if ink is so precious you can’t waste it. Write in exile, as if you are never going to get home again, and you have to call back every detail.
The truth hurts but
so do most other things.
I dreamed about you
but you were nothing like
When I woke up, I tried to call you
to tell you
the world wasn’t as bad as we thought
but if I ever knew your number,
it escaped me in that moment.
I hope you forgive me my
I get it from my country.
(Or else the ones who did this
to my country.
I can’t remember which.)
I heard from someone that
the sky makes room for some things
but not for others,
and I can’t help but think
that my limbs don’t bend the right way.
And anyway, I hope you’re happy after all.
And I hope the sad poems don’t make any sense to you, kid,
I hope you never have to understand.
And I’m sending my love.
You’ll recognize it by the way
it takes up all the elbow room
in your new house.
(Sorry about that.
It’s something I’m working on.)
I hope you sleep well, old friend.
I hope you wake up and
that’s ever been taken from you
is returned to you in full. Mr. J.H Found on Your Doorstep, 8 pm on a Saturday