The Missing Letter;

The Missing Letter;

I find myself
reading
our letters - still.
I hear our laughter
at the Hale-Bop tale; the night
I went over a cliff
in the wheelchair.

And I hear
the soft, sadness,
at other, less
cheerful tales - I feel
the gentleness
of your touch, and I hear
the words we spoke
as though we
sat here -
speaking still.

Does it matter
that I never heard, never
felt - only read - these things
across a backbone of light?

Does my hearing, feeling,
of these, events transpiring
in my head, alone, make
them any less real?

Does my hearing, feeling,
of these, events transpiring
in my head, alone, make
me any less sane - insane -
than another?

I find myself
reading our letters -
wondering how you
are getting on - and I
find myself reading
our letters -
still.

_{(To a friend :: 2011.06.04 @ 04:41)}