When you wrote to tell me of your pain
You made me a licensed voyeur
And I was allowed an intimacy
Beyond the corporeal we’ve never had.
Dreams I’d had of your thin wrists sweating
And your mouthful of crooked teeth smiling
But this was altogether different:
Your words penetrated in an old way.
Like ancient tablets in hermetic script
They meant more than their message.
So that where you ached, I ached
Where you were raw I too was raw
And as I read I cut myself and bled
And knew I was in love with you.
If you have any comments on this poem, Wynn Wheldon
would be pleased to hear from you.