That's what you get for peering at me
When the paint was barely dry from my first marriage.
What could I do but send you the letter
My yes mind composed but my no hand wrote?
I saw it on your desk. You had just sniffled away.
I have tried that letter thing a few times.
It never works.
The truth never works.
Better to endure the embarrassment in real time,
To fumble for words, to listen half heart all hope
And sniff out the residues in the air.
Letters are for when you become so familiar
It's safe to ignore what you say,
Or when you're so far away
There's no real requirement to be understood.
It was only, in fact, the other day
A note dropped out of a book, of all places,
That professed a lost and wounded love for me
As if there was something I could do about it
Even today.
I imagine that's how you felt,
The imagination left with so little,
The heaviest of weights.
