I found you last night, smudged ink in a wet letter
Letters don’t cry, do they? Perhaps they do, but not like
you
This letter cried, hiding you amidst the punctuations
Hiding your tears in its own, hiding your words in its own
The letter was in the attic, buried deep in my eyes
I found it floating around, like a hapless leaf
The attic was flooded, did it cry?
I cried, I remember that, my pillow was complaining
I chased the letter, it had my dreams in it
I don’t dream that well these days, like smudged ink in a
wet letter
Letters don’t cry, they don’t
My attic does, so do my eyes, where I found you, by my
complaining pillow…
