The old letters. A slender pile bound with a raffia string.
Where expressions are droll and careful. The quiet discourse.
The slant of the night-lamp across the page.
I, writing with an exploratory hand. You, answering
my movements as nobody else ever had.
Where the hours are small, I am at home, the crickets
listing their regrets alongside me.
The orgy of song gathering in the air.
The rhythmic convulsions, accumulating, till the sky
trembles and blinks.
Twilight and feelings of loss, ending comes before the end; again
and again, the pool is spent, and still blind will works to fill it up.
Wow!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Stearley. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Great work on this, I really enjoyed it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much, River!
LikeLiked by 1 person
You’re welcome.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Loved it, particularly this stanza: “Where the hours are small, I am at home, the crickets
listing their regrets alongside me.”
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Mitch, really happy you enjoyed it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Man. Made my heart feel like a desert. A sad desert. This is so beautiful. I can feel this space. ❤️
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, beautiful Katy. ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
My absolute pleasure. ❤️
LikeLiked by 1 person