A 10 minute break

I used to look forward to your letters
your little love notes that came
daily in sporadic moments as we worked.
Less and less they came as the real world
of five senses began to dull the sixth.
Tell me do you miss those intrusions,
or do you happily click clack along
as if those minute interuptions
were an annoyance to be given good
and terminable riddence today.
Still, I look for them sometimes like
small shiny rocks in the river to
show me how important I was for a time
to someone who I thought hung the moon.

Forgotten

Items on your shelf or left in a room
you never enter leave my mark upon you.
What could I do to change your heart
when it was already changing from its
Spring hue to Summer where freedom
is most preferrable to the shackels
of love and liking the way her hand
felt on your cheek or the way she
smiled to tell you she needed you.
None of those things mattered when
the world called you from your cave
a Tarzan or a Robinson Carusoe.
No, her steady care and her gradual
hope of love meant nothing and she
like any other that you turned away
left you to bury yourself in plain
jane ordinary site, no longer a treasure.
Will the dirt from New York or wherever
you have traveled rub off and let that
particular shine of yours show through
or are you forever tarnished by time
and a too long absence from happiness?
I do not know love, no, I only know
that the silence left me sorrowful
and the absence left me like a child
listening for the 7 notes of music
that should have been the purveyor
of Summers sweetness, but he did
not kindly stop for me.

What we leave behind. . .

Today I looked around my house and thought
about what another would think if they
entered here and I never returned.
Would they question the laundry still
stitting in baskets in the bedroom?
Would their eyes scan my kitchen for
unwashed dishes to discern my last meal?
Would they sit on my couch and wonder
how often I sat there looking out the window
willing my soul to be free of this human
trap? Or maybe they would look at the
photos scattered about to find out who
I am and who is important to me?
The box of love letters upstairs might
be of interest. But I think overall
they would never know me even by these
things that are pieces and parts of
a life less ordinary. What we leave behind
can never show them what we take with us.