Somewhere among
the piles of words
         we've strewn
                    across the room
like dirty clothes
worn out, wrinkled—
        stained—
the Love Letters lie:
spoiled sonnets       hopeful
in a sea of discontent;

and I watch you,
dagger-gleaming eyes
guarding a
               wellspring
of tears    rescind.
I'm always so sorry,
and you won't tell me
what you're really thinking,
behind those words.

We've forgotten the love
we used to write—
     (it was me who
      held your hand then
             did you forget?)
     (did I forget?)
—in verses
thousands of lines
                          long;

perfumed parchment,
love-looped handwriting,
sealed with a kiss
      that has faded
      as the ink has.

That wordlove is crumpled, now
these verses
among our piles.