Emotions put in words then stored
in corners of the cupboard also known as heart
unfold as linen, I can see the stains
of where too much was spilled,
where mould has taken over blood.
There is a silent moth
escaping in the blue of day,
and you are gone, and I am left
in dust and feather bed,
with heaps of irony to do.
Words have been used for other sentences,
but even if they are the same
those were not written in her name,
not meant the way she means them,
as the receiver of her words is another person.
Her worries are that he will never understand.
She tries again to make the formula work,
holding sentences to light,
and slightly shaking test tubes,
admiring crimson and violet merge.
She omits acids and bitter substances, adding salt,
knowing she might as well throw it away, she is aware
he does not share her idea of sugar into chemistry.
He can not see her newly made colour, not appreciate the taste.
She writes him her best letter and he will never care.