Dear,

I want to apologize for having abandoned the correspondence like a train of thought.
It was partially due to laziness and just as partially due to sheer, blinding, lovestruck panic.
You won’t remember my bed and the way it smelled or how I tied my hair back
when I was huddled between a girl’s thighs.
The dreams I recall are so removed from your reality that they cease to be more than foreign film tropes:
Love in the streets and scenes from a marriage; now over.
I have not been well despite this incessant health and accumulated wealth; rather, debt.
I could tell you things, oh the things I could tell,
But what of them?
We lose so many years living our lives so goddamn deliberately
while the rest of the world floats.
Let me regale you with my closets full of mementos and name brand ties.
There are boxes full of photos, half-torn; pages worth of poems, half-written; relationships in decay, half-lived.
You would marvel to see it all.
Although, I could understand how these sorts of details would not impress
now that the world is filled with cheeseburgers and television reruns
once again.

Sincerely.