There were love letters in
your desk,
fly-blown sheets of endearment
carelessly stacked.
It must have been an
exasperating vigil,
waiting so long for fulfilment,
and then to find the words
as useless as a prescription left
behind in the medicine cabinet
after the patient has died.
Or recovered.
In love I suppose that is the
same thing.
I burned them.
I do not need another
prescription for misery.
Cremation is satisfyingly
final,
like burial at sea.
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