I remember the time when
writing letters to
you meant boxing the
cacophony in my thoughts
in yellowed pages, tainted
with vodka breaths and
cigarette ashes, and drops of
salt water reacting to gravity,
it meant caging riots
in the dry land of denial
and penning them
first in lead- lead because
for you, I could be brave
only so long, lead
because the only
version of my existence I
could serve to you was
revised and flawless, the
existence which was defined
only by the harsh presence
of the eraser, promptly pushing
all my fallacies into oblivion.
It was only after you left
that I traded lead with ink
and the amendments of
my irregularities with
permanence and scribbled
imbroglio across crumpled papers.


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