I write, sometimes as if I were writing you a letter.
Write like I knew you well enough to know you.
Instead of this vague impression 
An outline of something roughly human shaped.

I don’t expect you ever to receive it.
The address is unknown and I won’t seek it out.
I just let the words go in the wind to scatter where they may.

Still there are things I want you to know.
Things I need to explain.
So I keep having this conversation with myself.

You are a wall to push agaisnt.
An unmovable object.

I feel bad for my impressions.
The handprint, the smudge,
My dirty fingers left behind
Barely visible
That you might wonder about.
But likely never notice.

I’m the one who left the cabinet ajar.
You thought it had been closed.
Only to find it a little open in the morning.

I’m sorry for this haunting.
I mean no harm.
But I am not yet able to rest.

Not yet.