Unloved Letter

In my room three lamps shine
but that doesn't make it any easier to see
exactly what I am trying to say.
The evening's darkness filters in
making shadows on the paper,
writing phantom words across the blankness.
My pen scratches lightly in the corner of the page
adding a splash of night on its white surface.
Time doesn't make it any easier.
It isn't any easier an hour later from when I first
sat down on my empty bed with a pen and pad.
Watching the minutes slowly blow away
does not make the words flow from the tip
of my pen any more than it makes people
grow young, instead I feel his weight on me,
the weight of responsibility for what I need to say.
I need to make my pen write so I can tell that old flame,
"I don't love you, you smother me, and I can't breathe.
Please let me go before I suffocate.
I want to be free, I need to let go of the weight,
I need to lose the added pounds of your
unwanted and overpowering affection.
I need to write this letter so that I am
able to breathe again without you
squeezing the air slowly from my lungs
like the time you tried to tickle me
and scratched my arms and sat on my chest
until I wheezed for air and mercy."
Freedom is a few mere written lines away
and yet I find the words hard to say because
even losing an uncomfortable weight is a loss.

September 12, 2002