Was it in the past week? Or last night? Maybe in a past life?
     I met you, but somehow forgot to tell you, you were just my world.
     Stoned and monumental, immortal to a fault;
     so when I could not reach you, my heart fell,
     mystery shattered every block, eternity yelled,
     Where are you going‽ Our history blew itself up,
     our memory broke apart.

The interest was nominal; at least my name was the one,
     the only you never said, its weight something troubling,
     its utterance hesitant, your patience humbling
     but what’s more numbing is wondering
     if I mattered, or was I just entertainment; your piece of art?
     Is the craftsmanship ever mutual, or are some
     of us made with defective parts?

Our dénouemonument scripted with wisdom, wide enough
     for its details to become an oversight isn’t
     long-lasting, and even prison walls contain truths
     from public view better than abandonment will permit
     my tongue to; saying as I am to you through the holes
     in this letter, torn in our passing from grandeur to desert sand,
     that I wanted to last forever, what two halves made better.