Wednesday, May 27, 2015

I wanted it to sit there

I left the letter in the box
It’s been almost a year
Knowing very well its lines
I could not touch 
The seemingly innocent
Pure and white leaf

I wanted it to sit there
To sleep 
In spring and summer, still thirsty
For my fingers, in autumn
A little crumpled, in winter
A little pale now, the ink
Had no more colour

Its end is near
I am still hoping for
The course of events
For it to wither
To become manure
To make room
To unwind,
Dissipate, dissolve

But I’m afraid that
Even if I burnt it
Like fields in burning season
Its imprint
Would remain forever
Would never