as the wind rushes in

I constantly am preening, inflating and softening the edges (it is just travel to an imaginary landscape) the idea that every personal interaction has just been a vehicle of my passing.

My constant head turning in this direction is a corruption to the spirit, and my romancing your stepping off that bridge in your best and only suit (I do clearly see your brown cuffs flapping and flailing in the March coastal winds) is the staggering roundhouse of my faulty maturity.

You deserved so much better.