Harper Collinson

Message in a (Cracked) Bottle

i threw into the Atlantic
a message in a bottle addressed to you.
maybe the glass cracked and
the parchment corners browned
under shriveling sunlight by day
and the force of tumultuous waves
by night. maybe
bits of saltwater leaked
and followed the labyrinth of my letter
to morph my words like spin art. so maybe the
water changed what i meant to say.
maybe you wrote me back. maybe your letter washed up on the
wrong beach. maybe
you meant to tell me
when your plane touched down at lindbergh field
what neither of us have mustered the
courage to speak.
so maybe you still feel something,
but somehow
by circumstance,
by your coefficient of “cool”,
by my impression that we’re both dissolving
we are lost in translation.
–forget translation
we are Lost.
streetlights guide me down the road to wherever i may go,
but when i arrive at the turn for your avenue, the city falls asleep
and my headlights
somehow, i turn around.
somehow, the years that used to be our
transatlantic rope start to drain from
the sieve that is my soul.
somehow, that seems too easy.
i pick up the landline and consider
punching in your number that
burns in the bold flames of my memory.
somehow, i tell the dial tone that 2012 is
irrelevant and
we both changed
and maybe that’s okay.

i hang up.
i don’t wonder why.


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