I found your prison letters today,
some old boxes I had stored
in my father's attic.
I wish I could tell you.
A bundle of thirty five envelopes
tied with a band, each uniform rectangle
splattered with your idiosyncrasies and
black, spidery writing.
I can't look inside.
I still remember your number: HW6834.
I stood in the cold too many times,
in a queue, in the rain, for love, to spend
1 5 minutes with you and laugh at the world
while the world laughed at us.
It was only the start of our story.
I think I'm used to missing you but sometimes
I forget. What I would give to find
one of your letters on my doormat again.
You were always going to be the one to cave in.
That Bowie song comes on the radio and
I just choke on my tears -
it's how I like to think you are now,
orbiting out there, finally at peace,
somehow holding all the answers.