Dear self from a month ago,
He is going to leave and you are going to leave. You are no longer meant for each other. This hurts now, but is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. You are headed to a new chapter of your life, in a new place, with new people. You will think no longer of holding him tightly. You will no longer get anxious when he doesn’t text back. In fact, you two are pretty much going to completely stop talking, and this will feel fine. Because you are going to meet a boy with stars in his eyes and love in his fingertips. Nothing before him has ever compared to the iridescence of this human being, who, by some incomprehensible miracle, feels a mutually incredible intimacy with you. It happens fast but you are not scared. In fact, you have never felt safer.
Hang in there, good things are on their way.
It seems tragically beautiful that the author of a revered piece of verse may be completely nonexistent to the readers of his work. The identities of many who wrote in Old and Middle English have been forgotten, as they did not have high status in the court. Chaucer is an exception, as he worked for the English government. The unknown author of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is not so lucky. He was not well enough endowed while he lived to be remembered after he died. Thus he only survives in his work. If he had not had the tendency to transfer his thoughts to paper, not a single living soul would know of his existence. And even so, his production of the text is all we have left to prove he was ever alive and breathing.
His fire is not forgotten, for the urn of the poem holds the ashes of a man who once burned.
to be loved, understood, and wanted
everything is memory except for the present moment and even that is constantly slipping away into the past
although it never really leaves the corners of your mind
it stays and lingers on throughout the course of time
everything in front of you is almost instantly behind
forgive me if it takes a while to accept these terms of mine
life’s a prison sentence — i was indicted with a crime
the crime of being born in these godforsaken times
my dear it’s probably best if you go yours and i go mine
it seems even in my desperation i’ve run all out of rhymes