I found your wrinkled letter in a stack
beneath the stairs, while cleaning up the mess
of last month’s rain. The box was mildewed black.
The envelope was ruined, but I guess
some higher cause preserved your final words,
the last of all your nebulous goodbyes.
Some places on the paper now are blurred
forever, even if the letter dries.
I still recall the night you dropped it by,
the casual way I turned and closed the door.
I hated you; for years I couldn’t cry.
For years I wished you’d say goodbye once more.
Goodbye my love, goodbye. This rotted mess
of words can serve no further usefulness.
Original version, (circa 1998?):
I found your letter, wrinkled in a stack
Beneath the stairs, while cleaning up the mess
Of last month’s rain. (The box was mildewed black.)
The envelope was ruined, but I guess
Some higher cause preserved your final words,
The last of all your nebulous good-byes.
Some places on the paper now are blurred
Forever, even if the letter dries.
I still recall the night you dropped it by,
The casual way I turned and closed the door.
I hated you; for years I couldn’t cry.
For years I wished that you’d return once more.
Yes, your last love-token has gone rotten.
No, you weren’t forgiven, just forgotten.