I started the letter the day yours arrived, addressing each pause,
Found how to break sentences with punctuation
Maybe if you were reading it out loud, your breath might
Pass here and I’d have taken it with guile, what was on your mind.
I threw away the letter I wrote, words were my pretention and
You could tell honesty from conjured emotion, a pair of
Socks beneath my desk distracts me, no more letters
To you today at least not until I re-arrange my things once more.
I put in another paragraph, a month has passed, your letter
Seems to be from another time when it might have made sense
Or reading it over, that you wrote it with mouth
The tongue rolling memories onto palate, what life can be.
I finished this letter six months late, every other sentence
Disjointed and edited by force, if only to finish what was begun,
I cannot say what I had meant to say,
The time capsule returns and hopes you remember.