frequent and fond

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.