Gift-Wrapped

For three years I debated,
shifted mind and tried,
so I wrote the letter.
Precision of word clarified my ramblings, it was done.
Finality on paper,
my signature binding me to my word.
No more a whirlwind of thought drifting at terminal speed,
the letter said it all
in just one page, two hundred words.
Branded wonderings,
there ‘till rot creeps in
like cancer.

On the envelope I write her name. But the letter is mine.
Unforgotten, but laid to rest,
the encased letter lays in it’s paper tomb.
Seven letters spell h-e-r,
but I own these words, they are my creation.
Ownership not for sale,
no paper torn ash will fall here.
She cannot read my letter.
Her name is
only fiction.

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Check out loads of other great poems this week at One Stop Wednesday! http://onestoppoetry.com/2011/03/one-shot-wednesday-week-37.html