Letters Unwritten
No one turns in their grave,
so, Irene I will turn for you.
I will turn this final page,
turn all those love-lights out
that I have kept bright
for these many decades.
Turn off the flow of love letters
that,
though never written,
I did indeed, scribe upon the dark,
dead-eyed nights.
Graves thrive on the marrow of lovers.
I have imagined you and I
both decaying in our own ways.
Now the days shorten Irene,
now toothless shadows bite at my soul.
Will you get to see me as I was Irene,
or will every mirror shatter
that we ever looked through?
Damn Irene, even the sky misses you.
Will this threadbare longing ever end,
or will my mind at last
run dry of this
all but invisible ink!
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