Dear Langone,

There are ripples on your pond.

Identical, those ripples,

jutting up at the perfect distance from each other.

The way water folds

makes me feel

I really could see the wind blow.

How are you

My encrypted lover.

Do you still write letters

To no one in particular.

Do you still record yourself

And love yourself doing so

(What a weirdo)

Are you still obsessed

With chickens

And tell everybody around

Of their bubbles

Really, Langone, nobody would know what you talk about

Nobody but one 

Who you said

Set himself out on a quest

For those things

And you’ve never seen him since

And you still think

And you still think, Langone,

You still think

You’re nearing him.

I’m sitting next to my crispy buffalo wings

Served with mayonnaise and chilli sauce

For me they’re good

Cuz they’re tasty

I don’t need bubbles, no, not me

I’m happy

Sitting here under this father of a tree

Eating fast food

And don’t care much of anything

This shan’t be the last time I write to you

But when that last time does come

You wouldn’t know

Cuz it’ll already have passed

Far, gone, past

You 

And if you wrote me then

Ah…. no, I don’t think so

Be well.

Love.