you write to me
in irregular lines of poetry
that flutter like feathers
from the nest of a winter's sparrow
and float through the crack in my heart
that you left when you left
when you said that you had decided
to live outside for a while
you write to me
from Paris and Prague
from Bangkok and Bangladesh
from the deserts of here and the jungles of there
and from every charcoal word
every simple scribble
i extract the essence of the you i remember
and like a midnight junkie
i tap the needle once or twice
and inject you into my dreams
you write to me
to say you've found true love at last
to say you're happy
living under an umbrella of stars
on the streets of paradise
with a man who is Persian or Prussian
i can't tell which
because most of the words
in the last few lines of your letters
are smeared
Well that's very sad.
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