Still sending letters of love…

Letters keep on being sent,
Will he ever descend?
In that tight bubble of posh and mighty,
His inner self is flushed
With responsibilities, work, dreams and endless goals.

When will reply come?
Should I write more?
When will I have more of her?
The questions flood the floor.

Crumbled paper thrown away,
Like before –
Mind wanders in the past –
He does feel so alone.

Last kisses in crowd that come and go,
Most recent memories, unlike before.
But did it mean so much to her?
Unsolved, unanswered riddles, puzzles, more…

It won’t ever be like before.
The touch can still be felt,
Her hair, bed and wine breath.
Why would I ever let her win?

That rascal of a woman.
The epitome of real life sin,
Yet leaves some beg for more.

Why would someone just fall deep in?
Isn’t it too much… yet more?
Still body, mind and thoughts
Keep wondering “what for?”

Words about “things” written for her,
But really, how serious are they?
Used like spin-off soap opera love,
This story is endless…

Yet hand keeps on writing.
Sending letters of love…

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