And yes, I still write.
I write him delicate letters,
like the ones I saved for you,
but I think of you
to fake love on paper.

Sometimes, I write the color wrong
of his eyes.
I’ve whited-out my praises of
the dreams I saw in your blue skies,
for the bland, brown that
are his.

And I don’t know
who hurts worse between him or me,
that the white out is still wet
– smudged –
and he sees when I hand them over.


**V. K.