You see.
I reflect on your note,
you composed a while ago.
I tuck it back inside its box
under my bed
where it belongs
and I sit and think.
As before the wine clouds my mind.
I saw you I'm sure
through the haze.
You touched me
through the stories you told
of the person you wanted
to be.
And they reached the soul that I was sure I had.
Anyway.
Now it matters
little beyond
nostalgia.
Now that I realise
I am no longer wise beyond my years
which are few.
And neither are you.
Or so I am told.
I know this is true,
but,
I can sit in the dark
and impose the early hours on
the girl I am,
and try,
try to compose
the end.
rough - i like your stretch of idea. here, with the letter as the subject & the evolving woman behind it. keep on SusxGLx
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
That's more like it hun. Raw, honest and with a touch of Old Charlie Boy. Great work.