Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...

erbacce-press

Matt Routledge

Lost Love, Letters

 
Here we go, again
You're calling me
From a time, (We never experienced time)
I'd long forgotten
 
I'm older now, (We never thought we'd grow,
Old)
We haven't though, Grown old dear,
Not together
 
Though you, oh you,
You'll look the same, feeding
Like the rat, from the dead
Remaining young, Youth in letters
 
I kept them all, in sadistic pleasure
(I lost normal pleasure, when I lost you)
Sad little letters, yelling at the past
(I once spoke softly)
 
My voice cracks, like the times I sang
Sweet romance and airs of Derry,
Now I've changed.
(Singing Leonard Cohen)
 
You're telling me, death is claiming you.
Knocking at the door.
Writing to tell me you love me
(Sadly I don't love you)
 
So here's my last letter,
I reply in simple tones,
"No one of that name at this address"
(He died of a broken heart)

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