But you're so far away,
As though it may make sense for my eyes to focus on a letter.
They'll fall through another girl's post,
Addressed to myself, and signed in brief from you.
But I must hear your voice as I read,
I fear I shall forget it before long.

This evening, I leafed through paper work, old cards and scrap books,
Discarding odd pieces and cards from people of the past,
I came across a folded piece of paper,
Written about a boy who went there years ago,
Who I have since forgotten,
Had I lost the paper, I'd have never remembered he had been there,
And that I had waited for him.

I remember Paris, how i found writing from him in the lobby of a hotel.
He asked of my Uncle,
Who I would give the whole of Paris to have back,
And my heart leapt as if a bone in this body did mind his presence.

Dull chords return me to a letter,
And lulled vocals send sparks, like zaps through my bones.
I feel the spaces between them and the holes that run through them,
And they collectively well up in my chest.

When do I tell you I can turn time,
And when do I mention I may collect feature walls
And write on the carpet.
Remember when I left the drawing room door open?

I believe you will write when you have the time,
Until then I will read Murakami, seek a warm corner of the bed,
And wind up spider's webs near my curtain.
I'll put a rail up, I'm nesting without the foetus,
I'm sure this is an illness,
I've poessessed it from longing for the most part of my life.

Must I secretly adore waiting here,
Cleaning the home for his return,
I shall have my hair curled the day!



Any way, lining up the table chairs and shining all the wood,
I find myself remembering,
I left the mail box locked.