My fingers tap in arrhythmic strokes
On the eve
Of an epistolary confession

I was assured
That my discourse
Would be minimal in its impact
But as the gust ripens
She opens her sails
To drift into the ocean
And avoid the convoluted rivers
Of my lucid dream world

Shift your sails, O absconder!
If you will change your course
I will change mine
And exonerate myself
For a less eventful sleep