Queue (queue) wrote,
Queue
queue

Poem

Read this at a story reading tonight. The reaction was pretty much complete silence. Oh well. I'll put it up here for posterity, so my genius can be appreciated after I'm dead.


You find the note.
You refuse to believe it.
I've told you so many times that
I could never do it, that
I couldn't understand people who could even contemplate it.
But I'm gone. Days turn into weeks.
I haven't been to work.
I haven't withdrawn money or used my credit cards.
I haven't checked my email.
You remember that I gave you the burden
of deciding what to do with my email.
You spend many days going through it,
reading some,
deleting some,
deciding some is too private.
You come upon an email I sent to you,
that you had forgotten.
It was only a few months before the note,
and it said that, for the first time,
I had experienced the desire for oblivion.
Not sleep, like I usually desire, but
a complete lack of thought, of dream, of mind.
You come to believe the note.

Years later, you are visiting the city,
remembering where you lived when you changed so much.
You were never very quick, like I was,
so it takes you several steps to recognize
the face of the dirty, hairy man sitting on the sidewalk,
coffee cup extended, eyes piercing you.
Several steps to recognize the eyes.
I told you I would never leave the city.
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