A Letter That Smelt of Mold
I can’t quite make sense how sometimes
One can be a poet
And not know how to read between the lines.
Sorry for not reading your letters sooner—
I was busy crocheting sunflowers
Out of the webs in the corners of my mind.
I admit—there were times when I stupidly wondered if
I still got to paint
The canvases of your imagination,
Or if the last of my smiles
Were still engraved in that part of your heart
That beat whenever I was around.
But then, wasn’t I the one who burned the ashes
And stopped the phoenix from rising again?
What a hypocrite I am for responding!
And how arrogant you are for even writing.
If your letters come from the warmth of spring,
Then why
Do they still smell like the damp of winter?
The season came and went;
It is foolish to claim to be enjoying the sun
When you are still quietly anticipating snowfall.
I am thankful for our shared thoughts—I truly am.
But some messages are bottled for a reason:
They are meant to be received, not opened.
Worry not, nameless mister—
She who hath let go of the butterflies
Watched them fly, free of regret.
She who hath looked straight into his eyes,
And mirrored his admiration, has gone forward,
Never to look back.
When farewells were all she had,
And farewells are all she can muster,
She'd give as many as he needs.
She rode the wrong train twice;
To do it a third time
Would deem her foolish.