nonsense

It would be so easy to tell you everything will be alright; that flowers won't dry, that you and she and he will laugh here and there, that those lovers in the park will hold hands day in day out, that our vinyls won't get scratched, and that the sun won't set behind the clouds. I won't do it, no, for you must see the landscape both dead and blooming, so you hear what I whisper, so you hear crickets chirping, and you invite me to rest my head on your shoulder.

There seems not to be reason to drop you these lines, you understand, since my anguish is great, and my thoughts are misguided, my sight ever blurred, and this hope is absconded; yet I sought for a reason not to do it, and found nothing under my bed, in my shoes or my pocket, also asked the good vendor what he thought 'bout the matter; if your heart says so, be so, said he from the counter, got nothing to lose, hence why do you ask me?

I do write to you, but I am a coward, so it is blind poetry the most I can type, leaving spaces blank, not addressing you, thinking perhaps next time there's rain I could be the first drop that reaches your skin.