and the weeks went by, the sun slept and rose, yet your image never faded from my view

the envelope stayed in my pocket. folded. tore. the ink smeared.

my words bled onto the paper, black on white with no gray clouds or voices in between

and when the return address blurred away, it might have been for the best

because apologetic prose on paper stained with tear drops and ink blots, may not have been what you were meant to read

but i couldn't help wondering if you still ate breakfast at that diner on the corner;

and i couldn't help remembering holding hands and conversations while walking down that boulevard in the cold