I may have decided 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.