Dear you,

I forget that you read this diary. It's so easy to get stuck in my head sometimes, thinking only about Phil-things, birds and pretty phrases and animal-prints. I keep thinking I'm some migrant from nature, lost in the city, bereft of feather and fur.

Maybe that's why I was growing nests on my head, in which I'd tuck things I'd need for the future, like a jar of honey, a cache of seeds, some rolled-up poems. A matchbook, some cigarettes I'd only half-smoke.

I like these lists. There's something comforting about these things, the idea of them than the actual having. (The actual having is the bother, I propose). The gesture toward an alternative-Phil. The Phil I'd love to have around, if I didn't need to take care of Mr., pay off my school loans, become an academic/critic, have a kitten or dwarf rabbit, do everything than itinerant ok-bad-ok-and-then-some poets can't do.

Another thing that those poets can't do cuz they never really have any money in their pockets: Visit you.

I hope I don't sound facetious or whatever there. I was never good with tone, so perhaps it's quite surprising I still think of myself as a writer. I'm ever off-the-mark, to the left or right, in the periphery, skirting around a center that's always questionable and ready to dissolve. That's okay, it's my own way.

Anyways, when you have a chance, send me a note. I miss you.

Love,
P.Q.S.

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