Untitled

Somewhere in the attic
of my mind,
hidden beneath layers of time,
is a jumble of yellowing
love letters
written, but never sent,
to the women I loved.

Today
I shall open that attic
once again
and brush away the cobwebs
that hang there like
curtains of indifference.
Then I shall add
the letter I wrote
last night
to that ragged pile of clumsy love.

Today
I will enter that attic
once again
to amalgamate old pain
with new.