I wrote you a letter with a thousand sounds
it said to you what I wanted to

neck outstretched, head aching to be bowed
by the weight of the great mind
they claimed I had, but nothing came
and the empty beats crackled, 
like the needle of a record player,
writhing over the grooves.

there in a puddle—my raw power,
you have wrung it from your veined hands
into this divinely shallow pool. 

I look for you in everyone. 

no, it does not eat away at me, 
for that implies dainty bites, stolen nibbles, 
no, I feel the rasp of my self tonight— 
grated and stripped bare by sharp syllables,
bloody words sliced, stilted, wrapped in butcher paper.

I went back to the house, into your room,
but it was empty, all the books gone, 
along with your shoes and your smell,
your traces erased, 
as if water had swept through this place, 
stealthy as the passing of childhood, 
carrying on its current
the evidence of our past.