I wrote you a letter once before,
I’m unsure if you ever got it.
I think it must lie buried;
hidden beneath pages and phrases,
under cover of supple black leather and ink.
I spoke of bad habits and warmth,
of holding tighter to what burns.
I asked that you be happy.
I asked that you be kind.
I hope that you are happy,
that you shed only your own tears.
I hope that you cling looser
to flame, if only out of fear.
And I hope that you are kind like thunder;
In rolling waves; in quiet rumbles.
That you forgive like a wet sandcastle;
that you stand tall; that you crumble.
I wrote you a letter once before.
I hope this one finds its way to you. Love,