love letters

who knew haunts spoke cursive? in inks, both black and blue, smudged with sweaty palms and disappointed tears. their life has been evaporated off the page, and the meaning is all but dead to me now. the young anticipation has found its resolution, and it turns out that nobody won the grand prize. and our eyes? i still have mine, still brown with green when the sun is kind, and i trust you still have yours, lest some scorned lover has finally scratched them out. steel blue, with gray, and brown, and green, and every other natural eye color in one, times two, is how you got your yes. but no. no more staring, looking for that something, that was nothing, in the pupils of young love, too dilated to see what was really there. just a ghost of a memory of beautiful mistakes made in thick picnic days, without so much as a breeze. how foolish your pen behaved when writing me such delusive lyrics for our adulterous soundtrack. and look, the poor words are all but withered under the weight they were asked, forced to carry for so long. only whispers of their curves and lines remain, and when i squint my big browns with sometimes greens, I can make out the shape of all your good intentions. but dare i blink! and there they go, back to the shadows of dictionary definitions and thesaurus synonymous. you have left the page, and left me with a page of words, no longer yours no longer meant for me. but, to remember the dead, i will fold you in four, and tuck you into your forever resting place amongst words that are as dead as yours. i pray we will not meet again, but you dance on those oppressively hot summer nights when i have no company to keep you away. but still, between two cardboard covers you will lay until, someday, i can finally put you to rest.