there was an old man
sitting on the steps in a church doorway
he was writing letters in Latin to ex-lovers
with a pen he found in the handle bars
of his 1982 fixed gear bike
on paper he stole from his local post office
he wrote them all and cried wooden tears with every word he spilled in a dead language
he never planned to send them
he just needed to leak his old habits
onto something he could hold again
the way he held the women of his past
with every letter he’d remember their eyes
some blue like floating crystals
some brown like the earth on a dry day
some green like forests that sink into the ground
he had eyes that had become red
from all the tears shed over the years
he left the letters
in the confessional booth at that church
left without saying a word
he died that day in a strangers backyard
with the heavy sky falling onto
his weathered, worn out skin
no one to say goodbye to
no one to hold his hand
an old nun found the letters
sent them away to the women he wrote them for
they all came to his funeral
and kissed him
one last time