I can hear the wounds in his words,
slow tone in this letter. He won’t stop.
I’ve staunched the flow– that old scar
opening for the thousandth time,
I’m done playing house.
Love is the boulder God cannot lift.
I can still hear his voice, stray
whispers– ghosts in the corners
of my vision, menthol cigarette
smoke, smells I remember.
He believes God can lift any boulder
But I’m not leaving. Not going back
to those four walls, old feelings– that get smaller
with every coat of paint.
I hope he finds someone,
maybe then the letters will stop coming.