Twelve e-mails, or more, are twelve pigeons,
each with a message to deliver. These are
messages to someone who may or may not care.
But perhaps my love's window is tightly shut?
Pigeons crash on the windowpane, necks broken,
access denied. Their blood is bruised blue from
a disillusioned fairy tale. Impatient, I sent a
picture of a light brown nude maiden, with nipples,
with pubic hair, barely covered in silky green.
That should trigger my love's memory of some
passionate episodes from yesterdays. That, too,
didn't cross the boundary at once, to reach you
— you, your breathing beside me I can't forget.
Oh! Everything seems silly now, and futile. I demand
unsaid words, be they loving, be they brutal.
Let me know if I should stop sending pigeons,
snapping pictures, dreaming reunion. Or are you,
a heartless person, taking pleasure in my suffering?
You never tell me to leave you, in so many words.
But love, if this is what you choose for us,
tell me, and I'll leave you alone and forgiving.
No more words, images, discussion of the past.