Love Letters (Poetry)

If ink were blood
I would have bled my body dry
a thousand times —
it proved no good
for passion’s words died slowly
in those unread lines...

I dreamt you burnt
my letters in their envelopes —
the edges curled —
black petals in an orange flame —
I felt their heat
endured that disembodied pain
as you erased me
from your private world.

Now I am ash —
my paper flesh a dust
that settles grain by grain
although you brush away
my memory
it drifts on back
time and time
again.