You have his letters still,
you have tied the bundles
with string not ribbons as

he supposed. You have
read them many times,
sometimes in order of

composition, sometimes
in order of picking from
the bundle, randomly,

taking carefully from its
envelope and opening up
to scan the page or pages.

You keep his letters at the
back of your underwear
draw, kept in neat bundles,

hidden from view. His script
is small, neatly drawn across
the page, his words slant to

the left, as if they are tired
words unable to stand upright
as most words can or do.

Sometimes you read them
by your bedside lamp, your
eyes feasting themselves like

greedy children over candy.
Now and then you stop at a
word or phrase and drink it in

and swirl it around your mind
like an intoxicating mixture to
make drunk your thoughts.

He writes no more, his letters
are all that you have of him, the
ink fading with the age and time.

Since the last letter you write
others from him in your head,
ones he never sent, never wrote.
His hand is silent now, no more is said.