I just looked over what I was writing five years back
and it appears it circled around thoughts of
distance, degradation and devotion
in equal parts.
It seems there was a certain someone
I was not being direct with
and was expressing myself literarily
rather than interpersonally.

It looks like good art was made
if not good communications
between me and other human beings
but who expects everything from text,
a language form built expressly to communicate
between human beings?

Five years ago,
I was not the man I am now
who would surely still be unable to communicate directly
with any object of desire,
so I can look back with empathy to the me I was back then
and say, “I feel you, brother.”

So if you’ll permit me:
“I feel you, brother.”

All right. Carry on.