Someone once told me poets are slightly deranged people who are in search of desperate help but too full of pride to ask for it
and someone always referred to me in every sentence as “someone”
There was something about passive aggressiveness you taught me, the more fluent you get at it the more fluent you get at getting past life
You laughed at my write ups and took another cigarette to your mouth saying how you’ll be the reason I hate the smell of smoke.
You called me crazy each time I talked about life But there was a sense of peace around you, that drone of nothingness
As if secretly you knew what was going on but never felt the need to say it out loud
Maybe that’s why you never questioned my fears, you just nodded and gave in.
You told me to never ask about yours either.
So we cautiously treaded through each other’s life and only talked about things that didn’t really matter
You rambled a lot, and they say people talk when overcome with fear
and we both knew we were scared; of so many things
But you had a way of dealing with it and that in turn made me feel like things were ok
I don’t know you might be thinking of another bizarre story to tell me or to make fun of another poem of mine
And knowing you, you wouldn’t read this far so I’ll make a tiny confession
For the peace, I don’t mind the smell of cigarettes. //UNSENT LETTERS
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