It’s been exhausting to write to myself,
Over and done giving me my own help.
Now it’s your turn to make me feel better,
To not sing me songs but write me letters.
I’ve inked elegy, epic and laments.
Drowning in that ink, my inner belligerent.
Send me papers in that ink of my laden rue,
But, let not those papers sink in the blues.
Compose me rhapsodies of happy ending,
Paint in those letters the rose-colored paintings.
Send me the fragrance of billet doux,
Send me in your notes your kisses too.
Your epistles made of mere verse,
Can heal all wounds and nurse,
My scarred heart and fractured mind,
The past and its grief would subside.
Write me your love
Even if you don’t.
Promise me you would
Even if you won’t.
Awaiting your epistles ’til stars alight,
’til then in my own laden remorse I write.