the loneliness of stamp collectors

The abstract part of you abstracted,
absent,
giving guest appearances on the other side of the globe.
It didn't tell you, just sent home the stub of a ticket,
second class,
cyrillic stamped across the back in purple shades of blue,
packed in sugar pink confetti caught at the party every other
threw to say goodbye.
You didn't know, you want to say,
but the part of you that persuades has fled,
has fucked some other part of some other person at some pink confetti party and gone.

You see it sometimes,
single frames spliced into films that make you sit up and say
nothing, now, but still,
in the stutters of white noise that you've left
in six-foot-spaces up and down the country
where you quaked and trembled because there was nothing left
to protect you from the answering machine
there is something;
a paper trial of need that never quite became desire
and now cannot because the part of you which pleased,
the part of you which knew where it was going has gone.

Write it back.