There's a sense of longing in me
as I read Rosemary's letter.
Her writing's honest.
Can't forget the years she's lost.
In isolation
she talks about her love.
And as I read
"I'll die alone",
I know she's aching.
There's a certain detail seen here...
The pen must have slipped to the side
and left a stain
next to his name.
She knows he's gone.
And isolation
is all that would remain.
"The wound in me is pouring out
to rest on a lover's shore".