Fred Aiken Writing

instant messages in fleeting bottles made of digital glass,
zip files opened, found what you were looking for,
but then forgotten,
as the brushstrokes grow cold, dried on uneven canvas
spread up and down an inconsistent hill,
and then told
it’s would have been better to laugh than hold
onto this silly notion that there was still something to
read in the texts you sent me last night,
drunk,
and lonely,
and frightened