I am a mailbox waiting for your letter
gently keeping every note you've slipped inside me
every small brush against my skin
every happy flower
inside the corners, spilling from my mouth
never eaten
never touched too much
just loved
and cherished
every second of the day.
The Moon shines on your letter I know is coming to me.
Patiently it travels through the fires of the night to find me,
to tell me every unabashed secret--which we know is nothing more than a truth hidden within a pillow--
to warm the lonely night I am trapped in.
It begins,
"Oh pretty baby,"
and the rest is a blur of tears sliding
down the wooden post puddling
below me
never more happy
never more trusting
just existing in an rosy cloud.
(Loving you entirely).
-k.p.b.
