recidivism. the rehashing, repeating and relapsing of behavior. the incessant partitioning of what you have from what you want. to speak of love to the shadows.

the days and weeks and months turning once again too long, whole years of loneliness crammed into hours of waiting.

but this is the last page i shall write to and for and of you, o best beloved.

i was dead because i lacked desire. now i live, knowing i have nothing except desire.

and doors close and such is life. full moon over the rooftops. my soul wailing at the white white moon like a wolf, a jackal, because i cannot reach and rip it to shreds

and so it ends

this is the last page of this, the end of anaïs, that reads sometimes as a confession and others as micropoetry and other as just simple raw ramblings of longing; lovestruck and lovelorn and lovefooled

to all of you, who read it and perhaps felt it and kept asking for a little more each time: you have my thanks. you picked up a message in a bottle.

miles of smiles.