Poem: Not A Love Letter

It is words strung together
trying to make sense
of what I want to tell you
and what I need you to understand.

Artwork by Rhea Paul

This is not a love letter.
It is just a piece of paper,
crumpled with rage
and ironed with guilt,
the moments of longing
still visible on the torn out edges.

This is not a love letter.
It is words strung together
trying to make sense
of what I want to tell you
and what I need you to understand.

This not a love letter.
It does not mention our first kiss
which was like
the winter sun on a cold afternoon,
the festive lights after a year of mourning,
a beloved book found again.

This is not a love letter.
It does not hold our sighs,
the peaceful ones we let out
when our foreheads touched
the trembling ones when our skins did
the ravaged ones when we read each other’s pain,
the silent ones when we entangled in comfort.

This is not a love letter.
It holds no memory of our morning whispers,
or the stars we counted in the night sky;
you searching for a constellation
and I finding a galaxy in your eyes.

This not a love letter.
It is the smile of a tormented soul
the morsels of a starving child
the dying fragrance of the flower
carefully concealed in a forgotten chapter.
It is a remembrance of
our last goodbye and the first hello.

No, this is not a love letter.
How can it be,
When I will never send it to you?

About the guest author

Burger Queen

An ardent believer that any diet which excludes a burger(s) for breakfast, lunch, and dinner should not exist.
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