He’s lying there thinking.
He’s written me so many messages
he wonders when he’ll be able to write
Something about the weather maybe.
Something about how it makes him dizzy.
About what happened today
instead of what happened yesterday.
Something to make him forget.
Something to let it through.
Words that have the cure of a pill.
To ease his constipated soul.
While I lie here thinking
of when he forgets me, then
maybe he won’t write to me
or about me anymore.
I would then be revealed
as nothing but the scum left behind
after words have outgrown
the squelching sounds they make
as I make my way out of his mind.
Words that no longer have meaning.
Something already forgotten.
Someone no longer there.