This is how it starts

The letters you sent me,
on the handmade note paper,
are like little pieces of you
that I can carry around with me.

On the bus, I can
reach in my pocket
and touch you.

I read them in the evening,
before I go to sleep
and think of what you might be getting up to.

Wondering if
you are awake
reading bits of me too.
Committing them to memory.



  1. slpmartin · July 20, 2010

    A very pleasant poem to read…thanks for sharing it.

    • zaphodfreek · July 21, 2010

      Hey, thanks slp.
      Really nice of you to say so.

  2. Rachael · July 21, 2010

    Hey Z,

    I just wanted to let you know I’m still reading your poetry and I still love it 🙂
    You have a good soul I think.

    As far as this poem in particular, I hope there is someone in the world who thinks fondly of their memories with me. Some days that little hope is all that keeps my faith in humanity alive, maybe even all that keeps ME alive.


    • zaphodfreek · July 21, 2010


      Thank you for reading it. It seems like a lot of the peeps that were on here when I started are gone (onwards and upwards I hope) and it is always lovely to hear from you. I’ve been in the habit of doing the same: reading a lot and not commenting. I appreciate it either way.

      Your comment both saddens me and makes me happy. If it’s any consolation, I do look back on our little chats and ‘to and forth’s with considerable warmth of heart.

      Just don’t go doing anything silly.


      • Rachael · July 24, 2010

        No worries, my dear. I won’t be doing anything too silly. I just keep on truckin’. It’s just difficult to be an idealist in this world. Nothing seems to meet expectations. The real world (or, rather, life after college) is a slap in the face.


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