The Letter

I'm writing to you, and the lamp is listening.

The clock awaits, softly ticking.

Doubtless I will close my eyes

and fall asleep in you.

The lamp is soft and I am a-fevered,

hearing naught but your voice, your voice.

Your name laughs on my lips

and your caress is in my fingers.

I hold our sweetness of aforetime,

your poor heart sobs in me,

and half in a dream, I hardly know

whether 'tis I who write, or you.