I write to you
everyday and each night
in my mind —
out of sight, out of love,
out of repetition.

Wearing grooves
through stone along the road,
my words think
they can erase the first set
and grind rather new ones

or wipe them out
altogether, letting me
slide free
off these memories, into
a wonderland anew.

How unlikely
that all is, with my constant
carving those grooves deeper still,
assuring that we talk yet

more, and again
day after day, hour upon
the next,
thickening this soup, more,
with words we cannot digest.

So I write to you,
envy stones along the road
sliding free,
and carve our grooves deeper still
with words we cannot digest.

Pushed into this one a bit by Kay Winter’s searching Something Cold Falls.