Letter to Myself

By Dina N

Only the wind as her observer,

Freedom under fading skies

Sending shrilling notes like unsigned letters,

Drifting from uncertain heights.

In name promised pain

Enough she endured,

Therewith bloomed a malady of the heart

Possessing no cure.

Scarcely inspired

To invite the wild into their homes,

Shuttering glimpses of a half-moon weaning

Over the scraggly moor she roams.

Though behind the skin

All blood flows the same,

You and I will be one

For the length of forever she shall remain.

A universe of experience

Wrought in every smudged script never known,

She who wrote enclosed in stacks of envelopes

Collecting dust on a shelf:

Dear me,

Love,

Myself.