Number Nine.

I wrote you a letter and hid it under a rock.
I hope you’d search for it, but the stormy weather caught it before you ever could.
I sang to a songbird, a lullaby more delirious than I, and it allowed me one single wish.
Its wings fluttered their farewells, on a hunt to expose the truth to you.
But a tragic butterfly swallowed the bird, leaving its final gasp of purity.
A week later, I was floating in mid air with a disintegrated letter calling out to me, murmuring my name.
I took grasp of every minuscule bit and pieced them together with my tar coated spit.
It wasn’t until I got hold of the last shard, stuck it together, and found my fragile body slipping….

f
a
l
l
i
n
g…..

f
a
l
l
i
n
g…..

I thought to myself, I’m going to hell.
Then time stalled and I was swimming in abysmal fear.
But dear, oh dear.
Oh dear, my dear.
I unclenched my palm and read aloud.
I was wrong all along, when I thought I’d been the one pondering.
But it was you, it was you, oh it was you, who wrote back to me after all.

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