by the time you read this

I might have decide that

writing truth
instead of poetry 
about shit
I don’t understand is 
actually helpful. 

For now though
just 
the mental motion
of avoiding the thing
that is 
right in front of 
me,

by
wrapping it in simile
or metaphor,
spitting it out
fuzzy,

it
cools the fevered
tectonics
between
us.

I won’t tell you 
how many times 
I plucked 
lines 
from thin air 
that someone,
not you,
dared anoint 
as poetry. 

Just, honest, open
words that
rung or echoed
or sang
to someone.

That felt good.

Or I used letters 
and rhymes 
to bang out
meaning 
by the glow 
of gaslight.

That felt weird.

It was the 
literary
equivalent of 
cinematographic
vertigo effect-

sugared stanzas
with snippets
of actual real life,

stretching reality,

kinda 
like close up
magic.

It was impossible

tracking rhythms,
waiting for the 
dance of 
you forward,

me backwards
to stop.

By the time
you read this
I will have shut down
my practice of 
coaching 
you
to wellness.

Likely,
correspondences
will have piled
up at the door;
leaving 
that space 
was not easy.

Not giving a 
forwarding address,

was.

Despite your claim
that I offered no
grace,

no

space for us
to improve,

I always felt
like the skeptical
Costco clerk-
whenever you returned
to
the conversation

broken and claiming
innocence.

Me with no
choice but
to exchange
anew,

I followed
our policy.

And by the time
you read this

I will have sought 
outside help. 
Professional help.

Called a friend.
Received a hint.
Removed wrong options.
Narrowed the margins.

And begun my
winning streak toward
mental health.

'Who wants to be
a million times
better?'

I do.

Long after you read this
I will still 
absentmindedly
bring focus to
the callus-

dragging my 
thoughts over
our rough treatment
of each other.

I will wonder
all the
wonders.

By the time you
read this
I will have accepted
that any
pain I
still feel 
from our lost connection

has equal cause-

you, ripping barbed ties
that bind from 
my grip,

and

me, holding on
too tight.