sticky summer nights with everything and the top sheet kicked off the bed

and the air conditioners low hum backing the sounds of our re-caught breath

and i love you,

you know,

like a lot

but i wonder what winter will be like with you

one time i took a broken clock

and i hung it up on the wall

and i never cared to know what time it was

and then you came in and took a look at it

and i said dont look at that it doesnt work

and you said but its the right time now, isnt it?

for you i have a bundle of

folded up memories,

tied up with a strand of twine and secured so neatly with a bow,

sorted at the bottom of a drawer

where the tape peels away

and edges of aged paper

begin to curl,

a ‘to burn’ note attached

and as for what is left,

the things that don’t fit so neatly in

such a cliche,

like all this sopping feeling

and incoherence

you have left me here to deal with-

that is what comes rushing from my heart,

overflowing from deep beneath my ribs,

a corner that has long since darkened behind a cast of shadow

and become caught up within old cobwebs

but these letters that i piece together,

while admittedly quite haphazardly

and only ever in the dead of night,

are both momentos of a past we both share

and confessionals of suppressed loneliness

all done in vain

but these letters are not for you

i do not write for you

and yet, sitting with my bloodied finger tips,

if not for you, then who?