Dear Friends,

I once wrote a letter, a once a while ago

While everything still moves on a line I know

The letter wasn’t special to anyone but you

It wasn’t at all a masterpiece, nothing really new

I still don’t know if you’ve read it, it may still be unexposed

Anyway I sat in class, holding on to words and sounds transposed

Between my ears and mouth.

I have two recordings of this class, just of Mr. P’s voice

Words and lisps I want to hold on to, just noise

Comfort for me, a capsule capturing class

Time trickles away before you know it’s passed

A section of silence spans therein

Where P sits, waiting for kids to come in,

Resting, tired, in thought.

It took me half an hour to realize us

To be aware off my existence, to just

Be, and to be in class, to pass

A happy period in English with people I admire

Recordings are good while staring at a pyre

Of gone things, but we are not gone.

I read your letter, it moved me

I read them again, they held me

In their “Dear”s and “Love”s and “I’m Sad To See You Go”s

As I flew through the throes

Of the tumultuous heavens upholding the plane

And I left my recordings for looks through paper panes.

And I felt, surrounding me, the end of a letter.