I wrote a letter to an old poet.
The paper: stained,
the pen: dry.
Then “Time stopped,” as the poet would say,
and often I find myself convinced by the claim.
I stare at the parchment,
at a loss for what to write—
letters jumbled
into half-made sentences,
with words that have no provenance.
It was moonlight when I started.
Now it’s day, and I stare
out the window.
I realize now—it was love we shared.
But the poet I knew is long gone.
His voice: an echo in my mind.
His poems—nothing but a mere song of his thoughts.
Words
that then were just momentary.
I recall him sitting in this very place,
writing until his pen
spilled ink all over the desk.
My gaze lingers on the stains that remain—
even the table can’t forget his trace.
I try to find it in myself
to forget him,
to forgive him
for tangling me in his mess.
To dust off the remains of his presence.
I find myself staring at the parchment once more,
and for the first time, I realize he had cursed me—
leaving me with his poetry behind.
Now all I write is but a shadow of him,
his voice stuck in the back of my mind.
And perhaps that was the cruelest thing he had done:
leaving me to bleed on parchment,
to be a mere trace—to fade.
