When it became apparent recycled air
shortened the lifespan of your letters,
I stopped replying;

The thought of being nothing more
than a grocery list of a dinner for three
was enough for me to briefly wonder
who else was invited—

and it made me feel as if I were
drowning
drowning
drowning
in a puddle of ink.

And I think of you,
whenever you’re not around,
with memories I wish I could throw away
like the pretty words you would write me.

Maybe
the cost of stamps can be split
between the you who sang me Spanish lullabies,
and the you who laughs senselessly
at the greatest sorrows of your time.

I loved you
because you let me.