unintended innuendo

Season of violet grief A day of navy oaths The weather a dim pink hush— ghosts of past, my muse. I accidentally wrote a letter scrawled on pale paper— Guess, my June, what spills forth when your blade slips through— —not me, the envelope. Perhaps a carol, yes— or an oration (how proud I was!)— or— no, not that— —perhaps just a thin red thread, words sealed in failing breath. Ruins of all I dared offer. Don’t blame me, love— and oh, don’t fear me, for all is said as the letter burns— in its pyre of regret.