Filed in Gather Writing Essential by on June 17, 2010 0 Comments

Who it was he wrote
To you don’t know, the
Name means nothing. But
It’s his scrawled signature
At the end, the spidery black

Ink gives him away. And he’s
Put love from at the bottom
Of the page, followed by
Written kisses. That gets to
You, the way he’s done that,

Put those crosses for kisses,
Almost like birds in flight.
You hold the letter in your
Hand. He’d stuffed it in a
Drawer of his desk. A copy

Of the real thing maybe of
The one he’s already posted
Or given. And poked in the
Pages of his diary her letter
To him. Blue ink. She writes

Small and neat and curls the
Last letter of her words. You
Imagine her writing it; her tiny
Hand moving over the page;
Her perfume seeping into the

Paper, her eyes following her
Words. You imagine her kissing
Him, putting her tongue down
His throat, putting her arms
Around him. You screw up the

Letter into a small ball and throw
It into the bin, but then change
Your mind and take it out and
Flatten it out and wipe out the
Creases the best you can. You

Wonder what they do when
They meet. You can picture them
Kissing, embracing, him fondling
Her, touching her arse, moving
His hand up and down her thigh.

You lay the letter out flat. Look
At her words; black, neat and deadly
Like preying birds. You poke the
Letters back and close the drawer.
He’ll say nothing about them if he

Finds them moved; he’ll pretend,
Be kind, be nice, put on his smile,
But thinking of her, loving her in
His heart and mind all the while.

About the Author ()

A man who seeks truth and friendship and hopes for abetter world.

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