Poems

The Letter

I stare hard
At those angry smudges on whiteness.
My eyes spot a two and a seven.
Defending heartbeats threaten to betray me.
I look across, beyond seven.
Is it five? It looks funny. Or?
No, it isn’t.
And I could no longer hear the heartbeats.

I step on the purple cap as I enter my room.
Stark yellow pages are fluttering near the window.
Did I tell you?
No, I didn’t!
I bought a thick letter pad of yellow coloured pages.
I want you to see it yourself
When you get my letter.
Hold it in your hands.
Smell the purple ink.

It has been days.
I am sure you must have received my letter.
Hopefully.
Life is busy, I know.
I must be patient.
You will write back to me,
Won’t you?

I want to write to you.
Only to you.
About every moment of my existence.
About the birds, trees and the weather.
I won’t write about my friends.
You don’t know them.
I will write about us.
Of unspoken emotions.
Of mute numbness.

The purple pen has dried up, I think.
I can’t see the cap anymore.
I am lying on the letterpad.
It makes up for a nice pillow.
But I don’t want to sleep.
I want to write to you.
Once.
Before my eyes close for ever.

3 thoughts on “The Letter”

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