Unsent Letter

Your rushed rhythm, a fallacy.
Your beguilings begging to jest.
The joke was all on me.
Your words feigned a song, imaginary and real.

You left me with autopsy of a pretty lie.
I cannot dissect to your pace.
Reveal a truth, leaving a rotting elephant.
It once took up refuge in our rough four corners.
It appears so sad now, fragile and broken,
lying in the fetal position.

You rushed your rhythm, requiring us to learn it, too. In the end,
you never gave us a chance to.

I miss you.
If you could slow your pace, you could feel it, too.
I miss our walking, talking and even the rambling.

I shed a tear at your dying elephant.
I miss you.
I miss when you knew who you were.
I suppose it’s near impossible not to.

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