Correspondence

My Dear Correspondent, 

It has become the moment to send the missive I have held back
for wont of your existence. But as you've said and I've pled, 
existence ought to be no condition for absence or presence.
So here we are, presuming you find yourself here eventually.

Our discussions have always been fruitful, and I respect you
for your, what are the words? Sanguinity? Dignity? Self-
possession? You know them, and you would deny them by
your silence. And so I name them, vaguely, halfway. And such
is the present degree of our connection, my dear friend. Your
words have been a considerable comfort to me for the decades
thus far, and I expect them to continue to carry me hence. That's
not too much to ask, is it? Not unjustified in the circumstances 
of this unjustified minuet? My passive voice reigns impassive 
at the activity of your reading nature. Please forgive my reveries,
you know they are my type, my personality if you will. A sort of
Myers-Briggsian banality, a corporatizable drivel. Such is my habit,
at least. If not a fantasy crawled toward through a childhood of 
fantasy, and White Oleander. What rigid bones, what insubstantial
dreams. I move again toward obscurity, as I am sure you will 
chuckle at this point. And of course, self analysis. I watch my
self carefully enough to fall into the lake and drown. But you 
know how I feel about fables. Let's split the difference; a swim
with a floating mirror to indicate to boats that I have placed myself
at their mercy, no matter how many times I've split my and the self.
I drone on again, a word appropriate for the automatic not-so- 
intelligent ramble that you help me discover. Your circumspection 
drives me to distracted thinking, and in so going, I discover what 
I had deliberately and accidentally hidden. And thus I hope I can 
offer you some fragment of what you have given me. An escape 
route that is at home and leads home. A communique from my shelf,
where my elven childhood scampers to the edge of the diving board
and clumsily attempts to reverse. We are not so different, you, I,
and all the others. We are cliché machines, creations of creations,
and a spry, more-than-wish to alight on the fortitude that a living 
earth may yet bountifully offer.

Yours as truly as mustered,
Poeis