The Love Letter

I'm old now ten years ago I was old too if a little
a bit lesser in years, she is my wife's niece but love is
like rain it just falls where it pleases.
The plain of Spain has nothing to do with it even if
at the time sit chooses to fall there….
I wrote her a poem her voice her body her hair way
she cast of her head when angry how I could let this
go I'm not a wordless mute.
It was not my intention to do anything about it I just
dictated what my heart wrote in a shivering moment.

Her mortification was deep she is ashamed of me,
a man she called Uncle behave like a lovelorn boy with
unbecoming thoughts.
That was not why I wrote the poem it was about love
not its fulfilment, the monotonous everyday issues.
I cannot erase the written words; she does not ring
her beloved aunt in case I answer the phone.
My infatuation was abstract as my love for her.
It is a woe living in a society of people, who read and
feel the words, not as something reprehensible, but as
an expression of love that has its own rhythm like
waves on the ocean