Letter To You

Hello!
I am writing
to inquire about
your well-being
and your recent encounter
with loneliness.

You wrote to me recently:
“I am looking out of the window
and I can see
behind the curtain of rain
and fog
sensitiveness is welling up
and eerily long fingers
of sorrow
are creeping up my neck
and pushing me against
my own ideas of being.”

As I read those
words
in the heart of the
amber colored Manhattans

I thought about
what I should tell you.

Yes my dear,
Eerily
long fingers has
the loneliness.

Now,
these words that
I am writing to you
are no consolation
but
I
am unable
to do anything else
besides offering you
my unrealized tears
under the crushing
heaviness of
Historia Melancholia,
and many chapters of it
covering
all of us.

Forgive me,
but
I, too, am lonely
as a plastic bag caught in the wind
on a fall afternoon
in Tehran,
and
perhaps
you will never
witness
my
loneliness
this is why
I am writing you this.

I know
You said
you are crushed
by
this irrational sense
of loneliness
that comes often
in the mornings
and presses against your
beautiful chest
until
the night falls.

I know this,
feeling –
for I travel through the night often
and feel,
naked
in the hands of
the morning.

And
I have things to tell you
about waking up
in the vastness
of the mornings
in which everyone
seems to know what they
are doing.
This frightens me.

I cry out
into mornings
out of an “unbearable”
agony
dipped in a syrupy
“lightness of being”
and all this
is as absurd
as my own thoughts &
existence in the
mornings.
I cry
cry
cry
into the silhouette of
empty men
and women in
business casual clothing
who move briskly
through streets of this and
all the “great” cities
who gaze at the day
with a purpose
no other than
the mechanic
form of existence
of being useful.

Men and women
whom are envious
of my schedule
who despise my drinking
who mock my inexhaustible energy
at nights
who envy the stories I gather from nights
yet never ever even
for once
want to take part in them
without knowing
how lonely they make me.

Oh my dear,
everyone &
every atom of ever living thing
that has lost
its gratitude
for solitude
and preciousness of living
makes me lonely
even myself.

I know
letters should be
without
confusing points
and insane demands
and requests for pity,
so I’ll write again;

Hello there!
I am well,
It’s Monday,
Manhattans are dark in color
sharp in taste,
and I am tending my garden,
my mushrooms of loneliness are
growing healthy,
awaiting you
to harvest them.

Peyman
Washington, D.C.
4.24.17