Dear Sanity

I write you without knowing where you roam,
what rooms you board in (if you board at all,
though I suspect you do), or where you find
your meals. At any rate, I hope you’re well.
I’m not. I am afraid your loss has caused
a tidal wave of doubt for all I do
to loom on my horizon; warp and weft
mean little to me know. I find myself
staring in the mirror, slack-jawed, nights.
The lightning pours like grease out of a pot.
A window opens sudden, like a shot
and rain comes in and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.
I write you now, with teardrops on my feet
and puddles in my shoes; I write you
without hope for a reply; I write,
maybe, myself another day: no, I
don’t know naught but this: I need you back,
sweet sanity, my dear, my only one,
so I can end this god-forsaken poem.