Air mail

 

You will write me no letters.

There will be no ghostly conversations from beyond

pale or not. It’s been weeks now, and still

you are still, my love. Silent. Quiet. Still.

No movement in the darkness

other than simple night terrors

loneliness and empty rooms and quiet.

It is so very quiet.

No generators. No laboured breathing.

No white noise of necessary ~

the machineries of life as we the aging

know it. None of what was then.

This is now.

And if you wrote me a letter

I know what you would say:

Get on with it. Move forward.

There is never enough time, love.

And I agree.

There was never enough time.