Lynn White

Dead Letter Drop

Once the words sprang off the pages

like the green shoots of spring

eager to be greeted

eager to be read.

That was before 

the winter chill

froze them

into remnants.

Tattered pages,

empty envelopes 

and empty words

as worn and shrivelled

as our love became.

Dead.

Or almost dead.

But I cannot quite let them go,

cannot quite let us go

so I’ll bundle them up

tie a ribbon round them

for old times sake

and hide them away 

in the winter branches.

And I’ll try to forget

and try not to forget.

And perhaps come spring

they’ll rise from the dead

like the new shoots on the tree 

and burst into life again.

It’s worth a chance.

First published in Silver Apples, Issue 14, 2020

Dream Lovers

I am in love with an imaginary person.

A Hollywood image flickering

on the straight line of my horizon,

a mirage created by my dreaming,

as all lovers are.

Then transposed to sit on top of flesh and bone,

stuffed into a skin, which doesn’t quite fit,

as all lovers are.

Some parts I hide inside.

Others are in the forefront of my imagination,

filling out the skin, adding more flesh to the bone.

I live in a soap opera stuffed full of imaginary people

with imaginary lives

interspaced with commercial breaks.

It’s more satisfactory,

easier than engaging with the dangers and tedium outside.

Even so, love can still hurt me, but not as badly.

Imaginary events are more controllable.

So it’s more satisfactory.

I can change the situations that trouble me

without stepping outside, 

without exposure or failure.

The real world is hard and

it’s people even more transitory than

the mirage lovers

who flicker in and out on the screen behind my eyes.

Are they the same for you, these soap opera people?

The mirage lovers

of  your reality and imagination.

First published by Paper Plane Pilots 2015

What Else Should I Say

I unscrambled my thoughts

to text you my love.

It’s the most I can do 

in this strange

distanced year

when there is 

so little new 

to tell you.

It’s inadequate

but what else should I say

when it’s your touch I long for,

your strokes

and caresses

and they’re as un-textable

as you are untouchable.

So what else should I say

only that 

you’re still the one,

it’s still you 

I’m looking for,

Babe.

First published in Visual Verse, February 2021