Cold Letters

If I write,
let me wilt my eyes on burnt-out tears.
I will stay up through all the moonlights,
to know my erasable remarks are read.
You will whimper inside at my raw and shivering phrases,
and only dream I was kind enough to offer a fire--
though kind enough is just a villain's laughter,
in a heart so non-existent.
I will show a heart so iced over,
no one will dare chisel it away.
Let me invite you to just the surface,
what's underneath is putrid,
nothing more than Gotham and drooling flowers.

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