Untitled, And Still Unoriginal
This is just to tell you that I will not
Write to you anymore. How could I?
For two hours I wrote down, in my voice,
The words of my singular love for
You that has become the song of myself.
I smiled as my blue pen (the one from you)
Crafted each special word, letter by letter.
What a remarkable love, this you and I!
I gave you my words; you then gave me hers.
And in her words to you I saw my own.
What sadness to see one is not at all
Unique, to feel one’s voice has come and gone
Before. What hollow words my letter now
Contains, for it is just one of two (or more?)
Letters, alike in thought, in your fair hands,
Where we laid our hearts. What can I write now
That you’ll believe? My vulgar words are just
An echo of a love been told before–
Nothing more and so much less.