Unwritten Letters

I imitated your voice and whispered it

Onto the deadness of your skin.

I read my childhood

Within the pallor thereof.


My lips would widen

To swallow your scent

And to harvest it

In the direction of my blood.


My hair glides over your physical silence

And I see myself as I was.

Your body unknown and intimate to me,

Statuesque, never again will look back at me.


I talk to you still.

I wail and march forward.

I want to kneel on the ground

And spread my arms around cold air

When I think of you and your name.



“Portrait de Madame Chéruit” by Paul César Helleu (1859-1927)

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