A few months ago, I wrote you a letter,
shouts bottled, recast in cursive.
Deciphering emojis makes me feel like an archeologist
enclosed in a glass sarcophagus.
I suppose I’m learning to love myself again,
and I'll start by cherishing my own handwriting.
Turns out, you never read my letter
Because it never arrived.
The postal service can barely keep up,
Frank Abagnale. Catch You if I Can.
You can't even keep a zip code.
I imagine you sitting in a motel room,
reloading one of your film cameras.
The figure in front of you is pulsing.
Cast in that rainbow movie of yours for an audience
more enraptured in the act of looking than the photo itself.
The thing is, all ll I see is you.
Out of frame and elsewhere.
You never got my letter.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
Words by James De Leon