Letters (The last)

There’s no ornamentation
In what I say.
Nothing to praise him.
I just feel this way.
He has no heart.
I am nothing to him.
And never will be.
He has written from his soul
To other women,
But he will never write to me.
All I had wished for,
Was a love letter...
Don't think he
Took me seriously.

Letters.

A mad rush
To the bin
A flurry of mail
And adrenalin.
A whole day
Doused in excitement and
Regret.
Uncoloured pictures,
Unsaid thoughts
Left buried
Under my pillow
In bed.
Maybe in the next one.
So the sun set out
Into the next sky,With a cheeky grin.

The Letter.

Lying in bed,
Lazing at noon,
A perambulator of thoughts
Creak in and out
With the sun’s last rays.
Hands move towards the desk.
Plain paper and my pen.
Thoughts flow.
Thoughts ebb and
Flow again.
Till pages are no more.
The soul is sore
Tis almost dusk
The heat and loo have gone
As quickly as they’d
Clamped down.
Sublime sunset

Through my window,
And you
Far away.
Time for studies again.