Letter

My friend,
so far away are
we two and I hope know
we can draw near.
Much is absent
(namely you).
So new experiences pile
and nearly cover me;
need to clear a space,
find a floor for these
weak ankles-
suitable for walking.
Purify my oxygen,
finish this maze,
connect the scattered dots.
Or will that divide?
Is the line you draw the contrast?
We are called to warm up
with painful stretches
and I could never estimate
the inflexibility of our fingers
and neurons,
never realize what pain
the pen, grasped by unpractised fingertips,
inflicts.

My friend?
Since these eyes squint
despite crippling myopia,
I feel (fear?) this letter
might MAGNIFY
and focus my target.
Why did you
shift?
Wish I knew where the
bull's-eye lies, how to fix
the aerodynamics of this
blunt arrow.
Would it matter even if
the perfect projectile
existed?
I am no archer.
Might injure, lose ammo or my
arm...
no not gone, but it would have
no strength though
the string's elasticity
lacks. It sags and tangles.
Like children's hair in need
of a hand to brush,
to tame, to soothe.

If the comb should break,
if the hand should falter
what of the knots?
Understand they will not
free themselves and hairs
will fall from the head,
carpeting the floor.
At first a relief as they
cover the splinters
that pain the foot.
I grew calloused and
accustomed
to wandering in search...
in seach of companionship,
like a hermit crab
outgrown his shell.
As a smoker breaks
his habit,
craving anything
to fit between his lips.

You.
I may not sight
again your curiously
shaped nose or the
crease in your forehead
to betray confusion,
but soon. Soon!
my ears may become
attuned to a particular
laugh
another.
The courners of my mouth
may lift
without your prompting.
And my missing half
will regrow
without rain or fertilizer. But still,
you will shade me now
from the sun's wrath,
Making me wish we
were we
and imagine that you
will remember this tiny plant
and send a message-
of regret, of assurance-
I will try to hold root
in this soil.
Love.