My sun, my son. I hope you’re well.

Prom.

Porm.

Poem.

Eon.


Whatever the form,
it’s always me,
on

a quest
to find
the perfect way
to wish you well…

to wrest
to try
to punch your arm
to squeeze you tight
to talk til moments move from day to night…

A well,

of feelings.
Drowned.
Without sound.

Our talk was muted
with no choice
AND FAIR ENOUGH.

Them’s the rules.

I miss you.


Life is tough.



Ah well.