Literature
Syne Lang
To my dear friend: I have been defensive and abrasive, crass towards all you do that I broke something, a switch, a wall, a barrier my insecurity, breached this taboo your bookkeeping made me feel I had done what I could hope I set out to alas, I am afraid of acts of love, they play like an encroaching silhouette the smoking barrel of a gun somehow held in my hand placed to the back of my foreshadowed heart which is barely there, but for the shallow pulse attracting beautiful souls, somehow, a ghost of the pen that my words are not who I am and never will be, or have been and always are, a paradox of art that to feel this is the work of poetry to explain it away is to tear the imaginary papyrus apart my friend, I will never be capable of who you are I did my lost time, and time again, I can't trust myself not to drag this edge too far that I couldn't survive the guilt is self-preservation, not protection for I will not bear anyone the burden of these scars though I am sorry, truly more than I can feel that you had to be you, my dear friend, that this- all had to be real.