This is the eighty-fourth letter
Or is it the eighty-fifth?
Damn! I lost count, just like when I lost you
When I lost everything
Everyday I anticipate the postman’s arrival
Praying to see just one word written by your hand
I look up to the sky, “Maybe she’ll send a messenger dove”
I listen to every bit of the wind’s whispers
Every detail! I still don’t hear your voice calling out to me
That afternoon at the porch
Whatever I said, I never meant them
I’ve forgotten those cold words of mine
Your face, drowned in tears
Your slender body moving far away from the house; from my life
These are the images that strive in my head
Martha, Oh Martha
Eighty-three (or eighty-four) letters
I don’t know what else to do
Do I spell out my tears?
To the letter, do I attach a sliver of my withered heart?
Yours truly; I no longer know what I am to you