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Friday, 22 July 2016 17:40

The forgotten love letter

By 
this letter is addressed

to the loneliest love story I have ever read

 

I found you

lost in the covers of a margin

dusty

stitched onto a page of Anne Frank’s Biography

begging to be touched once more

 

morning came

the sun prayed pity into the library room

romantic literature students

nowhere to be seen

but in this letter

I found something else

in the way the words were felt

from the war

Wakeem wrote:

my dear, my far away star

the one in the sky

scaling emptiness from a home

afar

hearing the hollow heartaches

that the silence of the page projects

pillow cases traced with an outline of her face

daily dosages of words from across the sea

smells of a soldier forgotten

remember, Wakeem says

summer is the time of name giving

I’ve forgotten to tell you

this place inside of me is lonely

I often lay your letters down beside me pretending

that your naked body quietly touches me

the light snores

in between the vowels of you and I

lay empty

 

this letter is addressed

to the loneliest love story I have ever read

he scratched out a line

that resembled truth

if he were to die

lies were what soothed

he said that war is for the drunken man

in the beginning the war looked like you

a woman

waiting to bloom

bombs were the breasts

that longed to be touched

guns and drones drowned me in white wine

water traced over the inner lines of masculine eyes

blinding me

he says

to what this war was about

a bud in the bare field

of figuring a woman out

but when I got to see men die

at the hands of their wives

I realized that I was right

this war did resemble you

this fight

this time

I looked through you

Smoke drizzling  

ashy memory falling from the bruised blue sky

touching homes

ones we destroyed

deceived

we learnt that the women the war resembled

stayed sleeping with us

under our hearts and iron bed mattresses

 

mediators in the spectacle

suppliers of worn out mothers

stretch markings of love handles

of guns

and buttons

that make babies die

 

I’ve forgotten to tell you

This place inside of me is lonely

I often lay your letters down beside me pretending

that your naked body quietly touches me

the light snores

in the vowels of you and I

lay empty

 

the letter is half destroyed

their story has been through war itself

how did I find it here

half addressed to the woman Wakeem loved

and then to me

a stranger he will never meet

a letter that I’ll never hide in books of loss

in concentrated closets of death

under the weight of a soldier’s chest

I have not touched my lover’s letter yet

If he had written me a letter

of what he truly felt

my war would look the same

an assimilate of love and hate

hanging

the way his washed out denim shirt does

behind the bedroom door

 

if I had to read the forgotten love letter

my lover concealed

I’d read about the woman he first loved

the one across the sea

I’d read about the words that rhyme with faith

lost

his silences would worship her

my lover’s letter would be no different to Wakeem’s

the only exception is

the loneliest love story I will ever read

won’t resemble me

 

I found you

lost in the covers of a margin

dusty

stitched on to a page of Anne Frank’s Biography

begging to be touched

once more

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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