Dec 8, 2011 by



she found the letter,
creased into quarters,
one over another,
the paper,
its lines dented deeply within
with a writing she knew wasn’t his.

How slowly she bent to pick up its edge,
delicately cupped within shaking hands,
she watched it,
her face kept perfectly still,
her heart,
how it hurt her insides.

She rested it by his afternoon tea,
waited for over three hours before
eventually she could wait no more
she took it and read it alone.

And what she read,
how it sliced!
Through her heart,
through her life
with the tale it gleefully told,
and now as she’d found it
in cruel recompense
did she cry,
and her life, too,

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