sadness not sadness then explode the thought yes of you again tonight the options are not so slight. come and be with me jude, then we can write. so no. no again. poet, look like god. sever from me the unintentional leverage of halflights, moonnlights, sunday mornings. sickness is bereft, the flue, as a whale and I cannot breathe sufficiently to allow for newer or better days. not alone. the writing has all stopped. it is all being written to or fro. and still you are always in my nearness. always in a sense of how close i can be to myself, with nothing lacking, or lacked, or lax. I want to fly to you. not in the metaphysical sense. I want to fly to you. Suppress the good of distance. the angst of silence, the mode of green as i see you so much in dreams, so much in tempermental fits of regret and desire. every morning is only that, only a morning.