letters
they are only
memories
of words
on paper, tied
with a single
silver ribbon
an era when I
loved so fiercely
and nursed
self-hatred enough
to null the passion

they were only
words
now sometimes
icons of
a ritual sacrifice;
self-inflicted beatings
a visitation
of dark and light
a whirlwind
knot
in the gut

i wonder
why sooner
i didn't lift a lighter
lick away
the ink from pulp
brighter blaze than
blood
but what greater
blasphemy
than to burn
holy
writ

for we
are all
but words
our lives are
only
the turning of pages
we change our meaning
with the
days
we slough
the old flesh
for the new

so he slumbers
softly
on the couch
and these words
touch
my most private place
maybe it's obscene
to
hear the voices
so loud
the letters tell me
i have not
sinned
for the last time

i hold something
precious
and stupid
that is both mine and
no longer
mine
we choose to burn
bridges
but long after
flesh has seared
from bone
the soul lives on
in haunted
whispers
like silver ribbon
and all we are
is
words.

---------------
the past is for the speaking
the present is for the listening
the future is for the understanding