
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.