Wednesday 30 January 2013

The Last Letter

How much do you change between a few sheaves of paper?
A few lines that hold the power to mark the end. A moment stretched and stretched and stretched and stretched. Lingering at every letter, every syllable, every period. But the last punctuation lasts forever. And we depart. The same lines that brought us together for that brief ecstatic moment severs us. For good. For good. 

I have ground those words to infinity
I have shredded and powdered them to dust
And yet it is me who is dusted off travelling cloaks
And metaphors

Dribble only makes it stand out more
Acutely fresh and stark in the dirt
Teeth can tear only bark
Not memory

And so I drain ice
And pomegranates bursting at the seams
Drops trickle down
Smearing what is now grease
Leaving fingerprints
So some part of me stayed with the letter
I am not wholly inconstant
There is still a moist place where we touched
Where we used to be.


  1. i have for the longest time tried to write a last letter. its just never enough :)

    and last or not, it always takes something away. its a goodbye to a bit of ourselves probably.

  2. Every word we speak or write is something precious we let adrift into a strange sea that'll lead to blades or petals and sometimes return to haunt us.