Letters
Letters are paper thin, the mailbox
is a black, gaping jaw,
a black-hole where my heart encloses
itself every other week.
Ink makes your words permanent.
Then, they don’t fall through the air
or disappear.
I know you are too far away.
Continents will drift
where no cable can cross them,
and no post-man can deliver.
2 Comments:
wow...you must be missing someone pretty damn much!
Earl Lee,
Yes, this poem is about missing someone. But it's not specific about who that person is. It's more about missing a fantasy, or an idea of someone, than it is about missing a particular person. It's a poem about all the people I have missed who have moved away. Sadly, I had more than one person in mind when I wrote it.
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