useless art

I miss you:

missing not like
a lover sighing over a scent
or a favorite shirt or a fuzzy
cuddle against nude skin,
but actually more,
because we’ve never

met
and the distance between
my imagination and
your actual self is a gap
wider than sleep. I

miss
your words, our words,
our unambiguous
syntax hacking the fat
from our respective
justifications for

living -
turning sestinas into
haiku, making footnotes
out of theses, cutting quick
to the seed
of the moment. I

miss
the soft sound your
text made against my
eyes - a reverential
keening caress suffuse
with rigid cock
and bearded kisses
and hugs made of
stars and long strings
of whispers

but
let’s not bog this down
in playground semantics
of like and like
like, or some platonic
lust that’s an insult
to your spiritual
piety and my incurable
envy.

Suffice it to say,
Anthony, I wish you took
my elliptical silence
these year-long months
as a blatant invitation
to say howdy.

I miss you.
Please write.