pelafina

Often I feel I sit here with my pen and paper writing to a ghost.
I should paint my nails purple and call you son.

I wonder, do you still have that box of letters that carefully displayed
my maddness and my love?
Do you still cherish my words like a fine wine on a cold december day?

Or have I become that neglected banshie, clawing from a distance at your
new life?

Your slience is ageing me.

I miss you my dear j.

Love...
Always and always love...

n. (With pieces of p)
*n