anne sat with me today,
we conversed
over nothing-
between fly-overs of
innuendo and mirth
she told me to take her letters
as if I donated to charities
of small thoughts
illegible stuff,
they called scribble
she said it was
imagination
her mind wafted butterflies,
colors and strangers,
things she wanted them to know
they couldn't know,
had no idea who she was
a disagreement?
her head shaking; a blown dandelion
she said
they know me
as much as i know myself,
it's history baby
i wanted to touch now
while she grew shadows in the window box
my blooms were relationships,
withered by too many reasons
anne's constantly changed
and when dusk snuffed daylight
we were both the same
humorless black





think we should write her a letter?...lol
15 old applause
