the unjust epiphanies of heroes

You pull eyelids like covers, underneath and warmer. And honey, sweetie, angel. You don't look like you used to. I've been beside myself with your grief. I left years in your hands. And you clasped them to your chest like they were yours. We were raincoats and windshield wipers. Remember? Summer breezes in open bars. Feathers of smoke over neon skies. The cellphone that rang when you kissed my neck. All the answers in our pockets. Folded in fourths. And I made myself relive it so that I could send you a letter I had hoped would save you. And you sent it back. And I sent it back. And you sent it back. And I sent it back. And the mailman said he wouldn't support civil war. But this isn't another Gettysburg. I'm fighting here for the sake of a past that should replace the present. So I got a job at the postal service just to find out where my letter ended up. And then I took the truck with an eagle painted on the side and got a map. And now I'm looking at you with my letter in your hand. Where you've just about given up. And honey, sweetie, angel. I didn't drive across the country to just let you let you go again.
He hands me back the letter. Mentions something about Potomac. I guess I am Robert E. Lee.
"You can't save me."
That is the sad line that made me quit the mail business. Made me quit the writing business. Made me quit the business of being. If you'll pardon the melodrama.