... having been breathed out

Everything’s like that, more or less.
The heart moves in jolts.
Living means not meeting up with yourself.
At the end of it all, if I’m tired, I’ll sleep.
But I’d like to meet you and for us to speak.
I’m sure we’d get along well, you and I.
But if we don’t meet, I’ll keep the moment
In which I thought we might.
I keep everything—
All the letters I’m written,
All the letters I’m not written