I Still Write

I miss her.

She wrote me from the steamer

in the middle of a bay

She wrote me from the island

at the end of the day

I wrote her from my bedroom

hiding lights under the sheets

I wrote her from my desk

in black ink thick and neat

She met me at the station

at a quarter after eight

She left for home that evening

a couple hours late

I spent my years without her

Only memories of her smile

I wrote her every time I had

I read once in a while

She stopped writing every morning

every day and afternoon

I wrote back to no letter

and pray to hear back soon.