I was wading through the dust which slept in my room as I have done for too long,
And finding its sullen grey between shelves, atop books, across screens and sometimes on my sheets.
Many articles of interest in this room, certainly, but mostly?
Dust.
And I plunged into a drawer with curious hands like a child in a sandbox,
And I found that letter you wrote me last December.
Or was it the December before?
The one where your heart bled from your chest, ran down your arms and saturated the page.

You know the one.

Anyway, I read it. Every word.
And then I folded it up, neatly, and placed it back in the drawer from which I had found it,
Much to the dust's pleasure.

I'm moving out now. The way I had always talked about.
Getting a place with some close friends.
(Who will probably become dire enemies.)
It's why I've been rummaging through all of my old ****.
Grandma wants this to be a sewing room. I've got a lot of cleaning out to do, you know.
I'm becoming a man now. An impervious, veteran adult.
But sometimes, amidst the dust - maybe it's ash - I feel a pair of hands
Wrenching apart my insides while I recall the words in that letter.
And I remember how your heart sang to me, and I remember every note.
Every coda; its pianos and its fortes.
Your heart has written other songs now,
With warmer tambre and vivid trebles.
And this 'adult' wonders, amidst dust and ash, why he deafened himself.

Two Decembers ago.
Or was it one?

I am not wanted here.