Drying his tears in just sorrow
and plain tissue box left crumbled on the floor;
a hand reached out for the letter box—
in cursive handwriting, addressed to him,
from a name he knows and repeats after,
that dried-up tears trickle down onto
the shoes that dear person bought for him.
With shaking hands he opens the letter,
inside reads long paragraphs,
of how he's still breathing the same air he does,
and in small words, he wrote,
'heroes don't lie.'