I’m sitting on the floor
Of my childhood home
In front of my opened shelf
Holding our hidden letters
Most of them are yours, though
I found a couple of mine
I don’t remember if they were
Just unsent, or returned to me
It’s strange, reading my own words
Strange to read yours too, a decade old
We were very dramatic teenagers
Promising love and support and safety
When we ourselves barely had any
It’s sweet, though, looking back
At that first bloom of our love
I think this city, this house, this room
Makes me look back more than anything else.
Ashquill 