Letters

Letters

I have waited for my letters
         for a year, which you
                   had promised to return to me

but somehow have forgotten.
         I ask you for them now,
                   but like the matter of a kiss,

which once you had from me
         above your chaste objection
                   because such lips were yours

and because my blood desired
         to touch in them your silence
                   and to taste in them your grief,

I apologize for nothing
         and take not back the words
                   but only their faithless messengers,

who, having failed
         of sense, must end
                   at the insistence of a fire,

fuel for
         a dying
                   heart.