Devastation of the Soul

Letters

That box under the bed

where spiders don't go

and monsters prefer not to dwell in

used to hold my letters

I used to read

and re-read them

re-live all, even shed

tears at the same places

The new tear stains looked

weirdly identical

Have I not changed?

All that distance I have covered,

the mileage I easily check on

each birthday cake

– does it mean nothing?

Something always

stays;

some things

remain to remind

or tease,

or maybe embitter.