Notes

...you guessed it

The notes scrunched under the door always came with

A smudge of soiled love,

But nothing more—

No hands to hold,

No arms to keep her away from the metallic cold.

 

The first time she had heard the voice from behind the wall

She had thought it a dream

And that was all—

A wish to fight the solitude,

A dream to end this crazed, chained interlude.

 

And then there came the notes, written in the writing

Of this newfound voice,

Both loving and biting—

Still no hands to hold,

No arms to keep her away from the metallic cold.