office. wouldn't you know,
it is Sunday. wouldn't i
remember?
of course i remembered
it was Sunday. of course
i did not go
to the post office
on a Sunday.
i simply walked
to the mailbox
and threw my reply
in. among the white
envelopes of bills
and requests,
maybe it was
lonely.
but it was not born
for loneliness,
you see.
i wrote it, a reply,
to your long love letter.
you sent it to me
a week ago. i'd torn
the plain envelope
carelessly, not knowing
it was carrying
your words
on such delicate
paper. i'd torn
the letter too.
but i read it,
as soon as i'd taped it,
once. and after lunch,
i read it again,
and that time, i smiled.
so again i took it
off my bed, and read it
and saw that your words
were written in pencil.
by the next day,
your words had faded,
but still there,
still very much there,
and i read on.
that time, i smiled
and cried too.
so your words
continued their journey
into the paper
or out in the air,
or unto my hands
and into the water.
they escaped my eyes,
and soon, my mind.
but some stayed,
trapped in that strip
of tape, clear and strong,
bound to the paper,
dirty and broken.
they made no sense,
stranded vowels
paired with a consonant
they didn't like.
i felt the heat
of their hate
underneath the tape.
then...
i cannot remember
what you wrote,
how your hand looked
under lamplight,
somewhere on the bed,
somewhere near my hands.
i can't. so i wrote back
when your words
finally disappeared,
after you'd disappeared,
after the day of lovers,
after the day of sweets.
except, i can't remember
what i penned, exactly.
all i held unto
was the fact
that i'd used a pen,
and not a pencil.
wouldn't want my
words
to escape into air.
i wrote no address
on the envelope
i sent you.
i don't remember it.
was not wise of me,
i think now, to choose
over pencil that dead pen.
my words will not vanish;
they will not find you.
after all,
i don't remember
what i'd written
on that paper.
but i do remember
today is Sunday.
and on Sunday,
there is no mail.
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