A letter came my way, Neat and decorated. It smelled like my lover, Writing from the east. There was no salutation, Or such sundry words. There was no warmth, Owing to early winters. He wrote to me of things- That had changed off late, And of the people he'd met, And of his all important job. He wrote of the many things- That wouldn't interest me at all. No sooner than I'd thought- To write back with passion, My pen ran dry of its ink. For good reason so, I guess. I had just realised that- I would've penned a comma, Where he'd put a full stop.