HIS LETTERS.

A WOMAN AND HER EX LOVERS'S LETTERS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You have gathered all
His letters together neatly,
Tied them romantically

 

With ribbon, placed them
In the drawer along with
Your undies and tampons

 

And washed-through black
Stockings, and left them
There, maybe forgotten.

 

But not his last one, which
You tore into pieces like
Confetti and cast from the

 

Window over the city. Pity
It ended so. The fine lines
Written, the words carrying

 

Their burdens, the sounds
As you read staying there
Inside your head. No doubt,

 

You’ll take them out and read
Them through (that’s what
Broken hearted and lonely

 

Lovers do) or so you heard
Somewhere. There again,
Maybe you won’t; maybe

 

You’ll leave them be to
Gather dust and rot away
Or be found after your death

 

By your children or grand
Children (if you have any
After the letters and the lost

 

Love) and read curiously by
Others eyes than yours.
The letters are like coffins

 

Carrying his dead words.
You closed the drawer on
Them; tried to forget they

 

Were there; tried to think
Of something else; poured
A drink; had a smoke. You’ll

 

Forget them, others say. Some
Hope; what a joke. Maybe
You ought to have burnt them

 

And made crosses on your
Forehead with the ashes.
His letters amongst undies

 

And tampons are still there,
Tied neatly, romantically,
Brushed off, treated with care.

Reviews

[just rose.]

At no other time are words so powerful as when you're sure they're not meant the same way anymore. Then they take on a personality, almost, like an entity, sitting there glowing in a drawer or an inbox. I know this deeply and you've expressed well here the dichotomy of caring/not caring and the hard work of getting to another place that's the longest and hardest journey there is.