A letter, my darling,
A letter, my dearest,
I’m holding a letter in my left hand,
The same hand you held
When I told you about the only thing my mind wants.
Now all that’s left is the empty life it haunts,
A cold hand, and a letter.
And I cannot send this letter.
There is no mailbox,
No postal office,
Only real worlds have those.
And are my words real
If I can’t send them to you?
You know I would have written you letters,
Even if we shared the same room.
Because I’m composed of letters,
For you, my darling.
The kind that overflow the teacups,
And the lids of eyes.
But, so long as I hold this one empty letter,
No more words I’ll write,
And every experience hereafter,
Will be darkened by the tinge
Of my inkless heart,
That cannot bloom upon the page
And root itself
In endless flowered scripts for you.
So my darling, my dearest,
I’m holding this letter,
In my left hand,
(But is it my left hand,
Or just the only hand that’s left to me?
The other one having been cut off from its vitality?)
In any case, it won’t be long
Before the hand that holds it
Is the coldest one of all.