The Mailman

Darkness surrounds me.
I write. . .
only words on paper.
I am not
the man I was
yesterday.
I am a stranger
to you,
to myself.

I walk to the refrigerator.
My heart is as fragile
as the glass I carry.
I feel empty,
yet,
I carry
a heavy heart
stuck between
the hollow of my chest
and the back of my throat.
The mailman did not come today.

I try
to spit out this creature
who has inhabited me,
this ghost of myself
who walks on my feet,
this caricature
who
poses as me.

As I write. . .
my heart cries.
The one this message
is addressed to
will only see
words on paper
as empty as myself.

The mailman
walked past my house
this morning.
"No," he said.
"There is no letter
for you today."
The me
inside the impostor
waits by the mailbox
every day,
futilely.

At first
I think the mailman
is hoarding my letters
for himself,
then,
I see the truth,
there will be no letters.
The mailman
will not deliver here any more.

I write. . .
the love in my heart,
you see. . .
only words on paper.