The beauty of writing like this, out into the evening to you my strangers

Is that I can write the most reckless, drunken lines without a care for their truth

Knowing that I’ll wake tomorrow to the horror of them

Lines that have no foundation, no authority, a hair’s breadth from insanity

Saying things like “I don’t give a damn about your life, how or when it ends

Only that before you die you live a moment of it as if owning it all

Knowing that every voice, every beauty, every poem be yours.”

Are you still there?

Yes, I’m still here. You?

Yes, still here.

Good.

–

Are you still there?

Yes, I’m still here. You?

Yes, still here.

Good.

I can’t see you as before though

Yes, you’ve drifted a little.

–

Are you still there?

Yes, I’m here. You?

Yes, still here.

Good.

I can’t…I can’t recall where…

Yes, where we were…where we are.

–

Are you still there?

Yes, I think so. I think I’m still here. You?

I think so, yes.

Good, good.

So many pasts though…which one?

Yes, too many to count now…what use in trying?

–

Are you still there?…Are you still there I say?

Yes. I’m here. You?

I’m here too.

Good, that’s good.

I have nothing left though…see nothing.

Yes, I too am all gone

–

I’m still here. You?

Yes, I’m here.