I sprawl across my bed with pink paper and a blue pen
and think about my day, and what to say.
Somewhere, in the jungle, he sits with sheets of thin
writing paper - always white - and a pencil with a worn eraser
writing in an unkind light.
I lay sprawled across my bed
He sits in a hole in the jungle
trying to keep dry.
His ink splotches are from raindrops,
mine are from the tears I cry.
It’s the time before I go to bed
the time before the patrols go out,
the time "before".
I spritz cologne on my envelope and affix a stamp;
his pencil tears the paper; his paper’s damp.
He writes “Free” and leans against a tree.
It’s the in-between hour
before I sleep
before the patrols go out
and he’s been writing in a bone-chilling shower.
It’s the time I’ve heard called “The Violet Hour”.