Old love letters paper the walls of my study.
Faded and peeling,
a few fall into the shadows
while most remain,
stubborn, insistent,
unyielding and unapologetic.
Oh, how the ink has begun to bleed!
To tattoo the dull, white paint in glimpses
between the letters,
as if I can hear their words
humming in a melody of minor chords.
I've stopped checking the mailbox,
full and lonely,
we are enemies.
Bookshelves surround me as well,
keepers of cluttered wisdom,
tomes of goodbyes, adieus,
and one or two apologies.
The stale air holds a minor chord--
the fermata of my early twenties
extends in a one significant pause:
You tell me,
We are not our history.
And then light the single match
illuminating
certain, brown eyes
and too much ruined papers.
Flames singe and curl the wallpaper
The fire sings over the sounds of my past.
We are alive in the crucible,
flames caressing my memories
now only in the fireplace
you have found in the corner.
Silent warmth and bare walls,
We sit down to write a new book,
bound in autumn leaves and cold rain,
and in a new handwriting,
You begin:
*We are alive in the crucible.