A disturbing pattern
begins to emerge. I look back
on my life of connective drift.
My attempts to reach out to someone
lost - and explain how I care,
and think, and miss,
and
it's always the same. I assure them
how
They come to mind, now and again,
as friends - and I welcome them in
and we reminisce. But
I never do call, despite
keen wish. "You are always busy,"
I chide. "In my mind, and I don't
want to interrupt your stuff. I suck
reaching out. I'm bad at it. But
frequent and fond
are the times I suck."
My attempts to reach out
are not carried through.
So no one is reassured. Things
change. They probably know.
They could easily guess, but
they probably suck just as well
at being estranged.
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