a hundred yellow envelopes
He wrote hundreds of poems
each about her
and the way her orange hair chases her smile in autumn wind
she left a hole in his heart
burned through its molten core
charred of black
his heart is hers, colder then home
he put together, yellow envelopes
and sent them among other needles in the hay
he could grow old waiting
tired, sifting through drained memories
loving a long-dead apparition
her bosom winds with butterflies
and she blossoms in the sun to his touch
her footing challenging the moon in his arms
and when she opens the envelopes
she reads timeless obsessions
and saturated infatuations
summer wind flushes her hair
and her face too
but she has long forgotten
and he waits, and continues to write
but the demanding darkness
only listens
and it knows to love
the thought of being
in love
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