Paper thin are the words I have composed to you:
I despise this fact,
hours and ink spent on my ruminations
form letters not more substantial than cigarette smoke.

As a little girl whose excitement of snow is
wasted on stained glass windows
that are unable to preserve the print of her breath.

Your comb on the dresser where you left it
would take days to be delivered, and your birthday gift
can only be seen on my nightstand
in photos I take. But I purchased something made of
porcelain to write love poems on so they will
not be ripped or

vaporized when August and six dollars gives them
to the famished mouth of your mailbox
empty, but for bills from
hospital visits caused by my hand heaving onto yours.

I just want to write your way back home to me
and I know the wind could
blow away my every wish, thinking you may ever stay.