Tonight, an inky darkness surrounds me
with a spell of anguish
from years of those unread letters.
The mite of time has left
only shreds of bundled joys
in the corner of an overfilled carton.
I extract those letters now, for our meeting.
Like an atlas of our childhood
I would like those letters
to take us places without any blur.
When we finally meet
we can start off, from where we left
at that bus stop and seamlessly tie
all these years into a knot of forgetfulness.
In our new found paper time machine
an ancient conversation could be dug up
and we could have a hearty laugh
at the tiresomeness of each other's lives.