If you could write me a letter
that I will never read,
Would you?
Would you do that for me?
Stop with the looting,
put down that lamp
and write.
Everything you didn’t say
just so I know,
what could have been
is now captured.
Endangered butterfly words
prinned to paper with ballpoint
pen
ink.
Now take the scrap sheet of paper
and shuffle it into
the forgotten corners
the maid never cleans.
Meanwhile, I put my letter to you
ironed, framed
in my recessed alter
with a fresh mala
offered everyday.
Coconut?
I knew you would decline.