I’m writing you again, my dear,
Letter eight hundred and sixty-four.
I know you won’t reply.
But none the less, I’m writing.
The same old words fill up the page:
“I love you”
“Please be mine forever”
All the same declarations
All the same adorations
All the same exhortations
All the same silence in response
Not that I blame you, darling
I couldn’t possibly do that
You are lovely and sweet
And everything that is kind
No, the fault is entirely mine
It’s truly not you, it’s me
I cast the blame upon my mirror
And the woeful image it shows me
The blame also lies in the drawer of my desk
Kept shamefully under lock and key
So I place this letter in that drawer
With the other eight hundred and sixty-three