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!