Letter #4

Dear _____,

you told me you use your bedsheets to cover your arches – i said the way they fall reminds me of what’s been hidden from view, which is a kind of poetry. i don’t know what that means – but i think i stayed up all night afterwards because the thought of them made the numbers on the clock swim in between traffic lights passed through curtains too thin, the sound of cars pressed in my ears as stories heard and stories maybe lived. suddenly seen, everything you want to be leaves you with an overwhelming feeling that means something and nothing at the same time. it’s a kind of addiction i’m learning needs constant validation, a reminder that failure is recurring, a sign of unreal expectations we’re not immune to no matter how many words we tell each other. because self-importance can’t see the forest through the trees and it’s nothing more than a chokehold held tight by splinters of bark. so in the millions of sounds that pass while we sleep, it’s your voice that i end up missing the most. and i remember how each of your arches curve inward before blooming, counting their traces layered in the petals of your eyes.

Originally written 26-09-2025

A found poem based off of: Bedwetters by Seafarers