literature

letters to a lost love

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Published: Sep 5, 2012

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Literature Text

she was so scared,
that day she left.
but she fought it with all her heart.
believed it'd all be okay.

he said he'd write her,
each and every day if she liked.
and he could see,
by the way her eyes sparkled 
and the smile that unconsciously 
flashed across her lips,
that she liked the sound of that.
she liked it very much.

and he said that even though
they'd be miles apart,
their hearts would never
be far at all; he said
it would all be okay

but days turned to weeks
and she wrote to him.
you'd see her sometimes,
first thing in the morning
out mailing her letter
before the trucks came to collect them.

sometimes she went
before the sun was even up.
and every day, there she was,
new letter in hand.

but he never wrote her back.
not once.
oh, she'd never say it,
even if you asked.
but you could tell.
there was a heart-wrenching sadness
behind her sweet smile
and quiet demeanor.

she used to check her mailbox every day.
sometimes twice -- even thrice --
but each time, came away empty-handed.
each time, she came away a little more defeated.

and then, she only checked every few days.
then maybe once a week.
but it was always the same.
empty.

soon, her eyes matched her mailbox,
devoid of colour,
devoid of light,
dark, hollow spaces,
devoid of letters,
devoid of love

I saw her that day.
it was before sunrise,
one gloomy Tuesday.

(it seemed that each day she felt sad,
the sky looked sadder)

she was shaking like a leaf
as she drew nearer to the red postal box,
shaking so bad that she dropped her postcard
and didn't even notice.

I picked it up.
a pretty picture of a fountain
covered one side.

on the other,
there was a name,
an address,
I assume they were his.

all it said, was
"I'm sorry"
in dainty handwriting

I returned it to her at the box,
as if I hadn't read it.
told her I'd seen her drop it,
way back there.

she thanked me,
her expression a strange mixture of
terror and relief,
mailed it and, with a determined look
in her sad eyes,
went home.

I heard the news
later that week.
they'd found her,
hanging from the rafters.

eyes devoid of sadness;
eyes devoid of life

she looked almost peaceful
at the final viewing.
like this was what 
she'd really been waiting for,
not a letter,
but an eternal slumber.

I saw him at the funeral.
at least, I think it was him.
he wasn't from here.
he wore a black suit and sat in the back,
stoic and stone-faced.

he didn't deserve
a girl like her,
a girl so wonderful and caring.
a girl willing to write
every day
for months on end
to a silent shadow
knowing that no matter how many she sent,
her box would always be empty.

I write to her
every day now.
I get up before the sun
and send them
before the trucks come
to collect them.