Amity

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.

10 comments

    1. Thank you, Stearley. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  1. Great work on this, I really enjoyed it.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much, River!

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Loved it, particularly this stanza: “Where the hours are small, I am at home, the crickets
    listing their regrets alongside me.”

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, Mitch, really happy you enjoyed it.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Man. Made my heart feel like a desert. A sad desert. This is so beautiful. I can feel this space. ❤️

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, beautiful Katy. ❤

      Liked by 1 person

      1. My absolute pleasure. ❤️

        Liked by 1 person

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