Dear John, make it through the war.                                                                                                     
Too much time has passed .
Your voice trickles from your letters,
Like a river is nearing its end
Swallow your pride,
let another take your place.
I fear your absence is coming,
It’s growing in your space

I desire no hero
I’m in need of no saviour
Instead, let us cook our favourites.            
and become drunk on our affection                                              
there will be no morning retribution
Your garments smell too fresh
your books have gone untouched.
Collecting dust upon your mantlepiece,
the one you bought at the Fairmont store

Three winters have passed since we last traded touch .
Three winters gone since I was whole.
Home is now a feeling, growing weaker like its owner.

Dear John, make it through the war.
And if you cannot bare another day
Then grant me hope.
Hope, for a hopelessness, forevermore