Grey Days

There is a cloud bank.

High above my head it floats,

Threatening to rain.

A metaphor

Dear Emotion,

I know, it's weird to write a note

When all this time we've been okay

With morse code (dashes, more than dots),

But lately, I've been thinking through

The many notes I've sent to you

By telegraph. I can't recall

A time before I made the call

To open up the line to you

And let you tell me who was who.

It's comfortable, our classic way

Of talking. (Well, you never talked.

I guess it would be better said

That I was praying all along,

But that's another can of worms.)

But all that is to simply say,

I wish this were a telegram.

There's far less need for eloquence

When words are simply happenstance.

The medium means more to me

Than what I say (and more to you,

I'd wager, than the tender dreams

I burned upon the effigy

Of love), but what's the point of art

If no one's there to see the art,

And no one cares to talk about

The art, or (God forbid) the dab

Who dares to break the mold of dust

That binds the words to meaning?

I submit to you, my dear,

That what we made was truly great

Because it took your face and brought

A magnifying glass to bear

Upon the smile dancing there

Without a single word. Who needs

The words when you are so sublime

Without them? (See, the romance now

Is rather drab because I'm so

Constrained by making sure I dot

My "I"s and cross my "T"s when all

I'd really rather do is send

A simple fucking telegram.)

But even you were not the point,

Emotion; rather, dashes were,

And you were just an opportu-

Nity to use my art to say

Nothing.

I think, if I could venture back,

I'd try to use the telegrams

To send a story, not a note.

I'm sorry, but I simply think

You weren't worth the time it took

To come to that conclusion, so

I guess if I could venture back,

I'd really rather simply cut

The wire between you and me.

That's not because I think you weren't

A worthy friend. (You are! I'm glad

To have you in my life.) It's just

That now I have this awful dream

Of masterpieces: telegrams

The world will hear and marvel at.

But that is not the way it works,

'Cause every telegram I send

Is better than the one before,

But there is only so much time

And space with which to paint my song

Before I have to pencil in

The note that all the world has stood

And left the show, 'cause really, who

Would take the time and space to send

A million telegrams?

I fell. And when I fell I thought,

"How lovely is this tunnel when

It doesn't have that nasty si-

Bilance that everybody seems

To think it ought to have!" But now

I see how silly thinking that

Must be when really all the si-

Bilance is meant to do is keep

The fall from ending with a nap.

You see, Emotion, I do not

Recall a time when I was not

Obsessed with art. I thought, at first,

That you were what was wrong, and thus

The silence, all these years, for which

I must apologize, my dear,

For now I see how wrong I was

To blame you.

Do not think that I have changed.

(I mean, I have, but that's beside

The point.) I still believe that art

Will mellow out the tossing sea

That runs about within my mind,

And yet I see (or, better, I

Concede) that this must truly be

A fib that I have swallowed like

A pill. Emotion, I have ram-

Bled on for far too long. Forgive

Me! All I'd hoped to say to you

Was that I'm done avoiding you.

Sincerely, and with great remorse,

Your friend.