November 30, 2012

A postcard arrived in the mail today;
beautiful words laced with love in tiny script.
Like the many I have packed in a shoebox
in my childhood bedroom.

She read the words out loud and I heard
your voice rattling that shoebox,
spilling your soul to me from miles away
again in my bedroom, in my mind,
reminders of the silence we share

Again I heard the words
a foreign tongue speaking to someone else.


Slowly, I was the dusty shoe box,
filled with the emptiness of you,
stuffed to the brim with my own silence.



I see photographs of your face -
I can hardly believe you're still real.
You are but a character
from a story
I'm not even reading anymore

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