Letter To A Girl In Brooklyn

It's almost midnight.

Late for me. 

I have a callout for 5:30am.

Early for me.

The time of day/night has a heavy influence on the vibe of the messages I write you. 

I'm tired.

In every way you can think of. 

A part of me is convinced I'll never make it out of here alive.

Like I was never meant to. 

Like maybe I actually died on those steps on that cold November night and this is just a little grace period, drafted by God, to give me one last chance to understand life before the curtain falls.

If so, I'm grateful. 

And heartbroken.

When I get tired like this I just want to sleep.

It takes too much effort to be okay.

Too much discipline to be worthy.

Too much luck, or tragedy, to be successful.

This is not a poem.

Just a letter I decided to unravel in short fragmented sentences.

Just a particular frequency running through me on an dread-filled October night in 2020.

I wonder how many miles of asphalt and broken glass are between us right now.

Pixels bridge the gap.

Years keep it intact.

I can hardly keep my eyes open anymore.

I owe you this letter.

These words are yours.

Everything I do falls short of intention.

Stamina is fleeting.

Exhaustion is real.

Nine numbers at birth.

Six numbers tonight.

Nothing more than a fragmented coalition of hypotheticals and contradictions.

A kaleidoscopic existence.

Maybe this is poetry.

Probably not.

I can never tell.

Probably just a letter crafted under duress mistaken for shitty poetry.

Unintended consequences of writing while weary.

More fodder for blackmail.

I should go to sleep now.

May this letter find you at just the right moment; at work but not actually working.

I hope your day is whatever you want it to be. 

Memorable at least.

I hope you're able to lose a few minutes between these lines.

Maybe find a few reasons.

Till next time...

Appreciate the small things.

Especially the unpredictable ones.

Drugs & Kisses from the Crimson Industrial Nonsense...

Yours Truly, Robert Lee Allen...