the letter

the black clawed
scrawl of your
letter, in old
ink, smeared wet,
under tears, perhaps,
or a drink spilled.
and i smell the
ashes of your
cigarette caught
up in the folds
before you sent
it out with the
morning mail. and
how you wait
and wait for a
reply while i stand
in the window,
in sunlight, pleased
to be done
with you, and to
be holding this
letter as further
proof of our love's
demise. write more
often. i need to
know the pain
that you are under.