under the back door

i find your note

slipped

under the back door.

folded thrice,

neatly,

as you are prone

to do.

the back

door, of course,

i'd expect nothing less

than stealth

out of you.

unsigned, but clearly

your handiwork,

line by line.

i know how you cross

your t's

and dot your i's.

there is little i don't

know about

you, but it's fading,

fading slowly.

but all in good time.