Dear John

Mornings come and go
the sting of immunisations and
melancholic mourning breath, held
closer than was comfortable to fight
the tide pulling me to sea
among the many fish.
I am my flesh, my vulnerabilities
I am my weakness and my faults
all you never took me for
all you ignored

Dear John, you cannot make this better.
Nights pass and come,
the ache of beachfront passion
to my temple; my body surely not
anymore. Less resistance from the anchor
in the shallows being dragged out
a rusted, jaded chain.

Dear John, this is a Scarlet Letter.