wonder.

i have all his letters hidden,
and poems with beautiful slopes,
sways in and out of punctuation,
how reckless yes so charred with hope.

its kept on top of a tree.
high where my hands wont reach.
but tonight being unrelentingly empty,
thus these eyes they finally read.

meticulous words upon words
placed so perfectly just in time,
and i wonder if it was all just,
an illusion of a perfect crime.