I've drafted one hundred poems for you.
One hundred characterizations of a single distant memory left inconclusive like Mozart's unfinished requiem.
You were a gardener
A gatekeeper
A guest
Disconnected narratives that followed only the simple pattern that they remain unread on a dusty desktop
So here's the truth:
You are not a gardener, whose seeds went misplaced.
Abandoned.
I did not seek refuge in the crack of a sidewalk only to sprout through like a success story of resilience.
The legacy received by every seed is not something that you will ever get to see
Because you left—
The opposite of a grave robber
But i was still left with nothing.
You are not a gatekeeper who controls both the lock and key.
An unlabelled species of plant, you understand why i'm dying to know my roots.
In earlier years, i wanted
A (struck by) lightning round
A (car) crash course
A definitive (limiting, possibly hurtful) analysis of where i came from, what you're like in relation to me.
But i found through age that you are nothing more than a broken half truth about the viscosity of blood and water.
There is no lock and key.
You gave up your legacy when you gave up on me.
And i'm out here chasing the world but you're on the other side of it
Above all else, you were a guest
Walking into my life and out just as quickly
Because a subway does not remember the name of every faceless patron
But i was willing to give you a try.
I dwelled on your existence,
Gave you shelter within my mind.
Wanted to know you to know me.
But it's been sixteen years and i'm no longer inside you.
I am not your guest anymore.
And i think it's time for you to go.
I've drafted one hundred poems for you.
One hundred poems? letters? i don't know.
A long range shooter will tell you that everything looks like bullseye from far away but every shot is a little closer to the unknown truth of it all.
Just like in math, when a line approaches a value it will never intersect.
So maybe you'll receive this poem
But i don't think i will ever truly reach you.
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