There are times
talking to you
feels like
throwing paper kites
underwater.
We are always
pulling
each other under,
instead of
building paper boats
to save
one another.

she sits by her window to write,
ever fond of the morning light;
not a day passes when she fails
to pen an epistle to him

she envisions him pulling
the missives from his saddle bags
perusing them a second time, a third,
admiring her chancery cursive

a year now since she saw him:
steady on his steed, his regiment
waiting, eager to join the fray, to ride
north under his proud command

perhaps at eventide, she will
write another letter, in case she
forgot anything she intended to say
this morn, or just to reach out again
before the setting of the sun

a cloud passes as she signs
her name, another as she folds
the paper; soon it seems, a gathering
storm--she places the letter in the
envelope, its traveling home

she turns the candle to pour
the wax, then presses the seal;
another story from her to him
ready for its long journey

the stroll from her room
to the mantel in the parlor
to the pile of paper that grows
higher above the hearth

a cold cavern of late, for
without him, she eschews all
things warm--for she knows
he must be freezing in the
cruel ground where he fell

(Spartanburg, South Carolina, Winter, 1863)

On nights like this
I think of you.
Only of you.
Nothing else.

On nights like this
I imagine of you and me.
Being together.
Alone.

On nights like this
I try to get you in my dreams.
Where we lay together at the beach.
Alone, just you and me.

But even in my dreams
are you trying to flee.
You are running away.
Not because you don't love me.
No.

On nights like this
I wanna catch up with you.
Only you.
But however.
You are afraid to show love.
Too afraid to commit to only me..

You said you loved my poetry,
That it was beautiful.
That it moved and writhed like a woman’s body
Under the cage of her predator, flesh pressed hotly against cold steel.
Said you loved how the light flooded out of me,
But you never mentioned how it left me empty most of the time.
You said you loved the fine lines of the words I wrote.
I didn’t know you meant the fragility I always wore
Like a permanent cloak.
You said you loved the melodious rhymes,
But didn’t mention the heartbroken prose that I weave
Between the spaces and curves of my womanly bones,
Eventually turned ugly
And withered with time.  

You loved my poetry so much,
When we kissed, you stole the words out of my mouth,
The metaphors and similes and imagery.
Left me empty of diction as you ran away,
The colours chasing after you like trails of blood.
Left me empty of all that light you loved
And caressed with your darkness.
Caged in your darkness.
Left me weightless, meaningless, loveless
As you take it all for yourself.

I am so empty now,
I almost feel nothing for you.

I hope someone someday
Loves your poetry.