Unread Letters

A tree, it’s only use to be cut for paper.

Unread letters.

I erase what I really want to say.

I pencil in the memories we used to share through words.

Erased, pink little shavings.

Like they never happened.

My hand aches for you when I sit in this chair to

Write.

Write what we used to have.

Forearm dyed from the pencil ink.

The page

Blank.