Written These Letters…

I’d, written, all these letters, and now, I have NO place to send them to, ‘cuz, you’re, already gone…

Written these letters, the professions of love I felt, and still feel, for you, these feelings of love, they run so deep, inside of my body, and I just, can’t get them all out of me, even though, we’re, already, over.

not my photo.

Written these letters, because they, were the only “connection” to you I will ever have, as you’re, already gone now, nowhere, to be found.  You’re no longer around, and I can’t find you, no matter, how hard I’d tried, I’d still, come up, emptyhanded.  Written these letters, wrapped them all up together, tightened, in that bundle of my thoughts, tied, with a big, red bow, and, I’d, put all of them, neatly, stacked up, folded, inside that cookie tin, then, reached toward the topmost level of that bookshelf that’s not at all easy to reach, without the ladders that wouldn’t shake.  Then, I’d, planted, a kiss on the cookie tin, and, gently, really, really carefully, like I was afraid of breaking something made of glass, placed the box, onto, the topmost shelf…

Written these letters, but, I have, no need to send them out now, as there are, NO recipients, fitting to receive them, including you.  So yeah, over the years, these letters I’d written had, accumulated, stacked up, higher, higher, and higher, and higher still.  Written these letters, and now, I’d, started this, burn pile, lit a match, set it all ablaze, created, this memory of fire, that even the downpour can’t put out!

not my photo.

 

 

 

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