The letters returned
Some opened and resealed
Others damaged by the handling
Of fool's fingers
They arrive in broken bundles
Telling me and teaching me
That time had all been wasted
The words, once wonderful kindling,
Useful for the fire we built
Now lay dead in distant sentences
Similar to those spoken by strangers
We were only strangers once we stopped believing
The crisscross of stories, long shared
Thinking finally some one cared enough
To open themselves, bare all oddities
And scoop sweetness in their palm
Massage it into the tense shoulders
That carried far too much weight for one
Those beautiful breaths between hello and goodnight
Turned to swallowed hard syllables
Written in caveman hieroglyphic goodbyes
Pondered over by strangers
We were only strangers once we looked away
Before the break of hearts and happiness
Were the love notes left on pillows
Pulsing lifeblood through our veins, making us aware
That no one knew what we had discovered as ours
Ribbons wrapped the poetry penned, late at night
When all I needed was a whisper from your lips
As our ships sailed towards a consensual horizon
Before the untimely death of dreams, and the return
Of letters which should have landed in your lap
Post marked...'Undeliverable' by some stranger's hand
We were only strangers once you changed your smile
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Writing is indeed good therapy. I can not answer your question, Susan, for it is strange to me as well. Peace