A letter to

Dear ___,

It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you,
And I can’t wait to,
A sign that you’ve read this would suffice,
A letter, I prefer, if you provide,
A story that I can cherish in case you choose the latter.

There is nothing new around here,
Only a gypsy convoy coming to town,
Travellers, a free bunch,
A fortune teller among them,
(The irony in that,)
I doubt she could tell me much,
But it could be fun, so I’ll go,
Maybe she’ll see in her crystal ball,
Where I can’t be at all.

I was checking my face the other night,
When I saw the mirror fall,
Shattering pieces echoed,
And for a second I saw it, then lost sight,
Though, I don’t know what I was looking for,
I can swear I saw it and wanted more,
I’ve checked every bit but couldn’t find,
And I with the mirror bind,
My ears in where supposed my lips,
My eyes on my fingertips,
Tried to fix but I don’t know how.

In my dreams, faces are blurred now,
Names uncertain,
They kill, bleed, listen, and nod,
Since that’s all I can afford,
But I don’t believe them,
I don’t believe in them,
They’re just shadows behind the curtain,
A blasé narrator lead,
With thousands of strings.

It ended here now, the spring,
And, you know, all the likes of it,
It’s freezing so in layers I dress,
Still not warm,
Nature gives less and less,
Only a few colours lit,
And I forget to look, really,
And it’s still more than it took,
Yet.

Don’t let my words you upset,
And your cheeks are now wet I bet,
But I needed this.

I wish you here be,
Sincerely…

13.11.20