Unsent

Letters, mounted upon each other, thousands,

But only hundreds tell of sweet adoration.

In my dreams I send them and in my nightmares

You yield them to my wrong postal address;

In life I’m never drunk enough to look upon them at all.

I don’t order these letters, but luckily they automatically

Order themselves chronologically. So if I die,

When you read them, don’t read the first ones,

Don’t read the ones on the top, written in blood,

For they are full of unjustified horrific thoughts.

Read the ones at the bottom full of indulging treasury

That marks the true romantic spirit of words unread.

I cherish the thought that you have written me back,

Somehow, mindless of the rumbling of our reality.

I hope I have never before written this, for it is untrue

And very shameful and distorts every ideal,

But I want to burn everything

Before I forget it all,

And then, sometimes, speak to you with a voice anew.