Pyoters Moters

My wife is the dearest, most precious darling and I love her ❤ And I want to let her know that she is safe, she doesn’t need imaginary friends anymore, and that I love her with all my heart.

It’s okay baby – Love Peter




her face down-turned : these days.

coffee strained eyes. cried the color out a few months ago.

new greyed view doesn’t suit her.

left a letter draft: sits, waiting

to be sent in five , six

,  million years . can’t close the

matter right off?

quiet slogan ,  printed worn

to defend white

shirts she wears ,  still ,  every time.

life spilt errywhere’ ,  of circumstance ,  born

so ,  see.

and when there’s no step backwards ,.  every. one we

tentatively spoor ahead.






finally I found strength I abandoned

, with benefit but

large much struggle. This is the only

thing: let it burden me. You

deserve my honesty, I cannot

allow for

your intense stare, it knows

me inside out. I could

never deny a thing, nor admit

to my want till that brief happy end, so even

now down widely echoing

hallways maybe is

my barren, reverberating reply.




finally now when tired

, my words pick up pace and

my whispers thicken into the

accent of

one whose heard others speaking with it all

her life , and-

rarely did herself

, unable to

face the glorious ease in

letting go of

denying myself.

playing the largest part

in this was my inability to

disclose: for the

situations never deem appropriate, and

I being always stiff , every time

like nails stuck in an old board,

so quickly felt the difference

between sitting

and standing, bent

knees. change of

position a rare

glimpse of comfort, so


but here I am

, so snug

where my lips easily sink to

homes’ tongue, my words thicken

back into unguarded, grateful


here it is lovely.


Arms always in an open stance

prepared to hug

my teddy bear

sits quietly, awaiting my return.

Patient, he is never

unprepared to

offer me comfort.


Crossing your hands around

yourself, you are

purposefully preventing me from

showing my affection.

Purposefully you spurn me, tease

my heart.

You cut me to the core.

So you I leave,

to my teddy I go.

Poor teddy.

He’s a real man:

content to lie on the bed

or be tossed to the floor in fits

or sobbed and gasped into when I need to hide

my face, despaired.

No matter what I can return

to his embrace.