Depression and hurt often made her dramatic,
And it was something she had written to me
In one of her traumatic depression moods:
Now, lately discovered, a decade later,
Placed among some letters, receipts,
As safe as I — ten years ago — had left it,
Other dull, unimportant irrelevant things have since
Accumulated on top of it. I was not that keen
In reading a letter — as she told me — would tell me
What a heartless prude devoid of emotion I had been
And as I read it today, way past the deadline and its author,
I tell myself, well, this — this cannot be about me!
Not that I’m misted by narcissist self-importance
— Well I am, I am: but, what I mean is — not now —
But, this document is a pure disgrace to the lover in me.
Whom can I show this to, just for a second opinion?
This slander on who I am, what hurt, pain, cold-hearted
Neglect and past-caring-nonchalance I am said to give?
Perhaps, her frustration had driven her to morbid insanity,
But, that is what the men said of all women who riled to live.
I return it to where it was left for a decade,
The paper tinted yellow, now, guttered at the crease;
I still don’t think, in spite of what she says,
That I could have been what the paper states it is:
But, then, of course: we were wrongfully attached all the more.