In my thorax I still keep all your love letters, which no longer drip honey.  I grip them with longing, put them under the headrest and stoop into my bed with burned thoughts.
Smouldered the scent of letters with forgetfulness, my dear.
Smouldered the stained bench in which bashfully I touched your hands, withdrawing that piece of paper.
I smouldered the red dot dress, that took your savour while in tight hugs.

They all burn in me my dear, and I burn with hot tears your only left letters.

Yours,
     Lorna.