Reading between the lines,
She doesn’t think he loves
Her anymore. The little clues
Stare out at her. The slant of
Writing seems to indicate he
Loves her less or not at all of late.
The choice of ink from blue to
Black, the neatness of his hand
Has given way to untidy scrawl.
She knows his writing best of all.
She sniffs the paper for another’s
Scent, some indication that some
Other’ presence may be found
Soaked into the paper’s soul.
She holds the letter up to the light.
Some other’s fingerprint seems
There all right. She runs a finger
Along the lines, scanning each word,
Each scribbled letter, each dot
And comma. She senses betrayal
In the letter’s every line, a knife in
The back from each scrawled word.
She imagines him writing the letter
While some other woman licks his
Ear, whispering the words, touching
His hand and moving the pen. She
Sniffs the letter again. A hint of some
Cheap perfume. She sniffs once more,
Closing her eyes. She imagines what
Sort of woman wears such stuff, what
Kind of whore. She runs through her
Mind any name he has mentioned,
Any image coming to mind, any woman
Slutty enough to stink and glow.
She folds the letter slowly into neatness,
Places it back into the envelope, sits back
And lights a cigarette, brooding on her
Betrayer, but finding no other woman,
Lover or whore, within her mind as yet.