these love letters ...
these love letters
that you left in such
a small black box
there in the back of my closet
have faded to the colour
of sour cream now
and even the vibrant
envelopes that once were red
and snapdragon purple
have paled
as if left out in the rain
and summer sun
their tattered corners
crumbling somewhat
from repeated unfoldings
when words of hopefulness
mattered and numbed
the solitude of times apart
but that was long ago
when knowing tomorrows
was easy and
meant something
these love letters
are what remain
and should i dare to open
one or two
i guess
for a moment
i would remember
you
and the love we shared
caught in words
and phrases
and inimitable images
of passion perfect
the promises
of a future together
sketched out in
blue-black ink
scratched across
cheap newsprint
or costly vellum
all so well-worn now
the writing has faded
and all but fallen off the pages
these love letters
these are the dusty history books
chronicling our short
time together
stowed away now
in the backmost shelves of
an unknown library
where no one goes
and no one
but you and i
has ever been
unread by any of the great scholars
and unknown to the curious eyes
of the students of love
instead they remain
a singular collection
that tells one story
of a romantic journey
towards happiness
that seemed
without end
but there always is an end
isn't there?
these love letters
have grown old with me
and i have been proud
to be the curator
of these testaments
to the unfolding
of furious fantasies
custodian to
the moments we knew
and then forgot
moments to file away
in dark closets
as we drift
from hello
to goodbye
over and over
always hoping
always waiting
and who can say
why we write
our feelings onto
cards and letters
that age
and crumble
until those feelings
are lost
disappearing in an instant
recalling that first moment
when one heart suddenly
reaches for another heart
spark to flame
flame to fire
fire to ashes
these love letters
tumble over the bed
we once shared
and as i look over
this quilt of memories
i see your face again
the eyes that lit
even the darkest rooms
the soft pink lips
quietly whispering
to me between
gentle kisses
and for a moment
i am moved
to breathe in the scent
of youth and promise
but in the next moment
i find myself
gathering them up
and slipping each
into a large manilla envelope
addressed to you
and your new life
the one you chose
over the dreams we shared
dreams as fragile
as the paper world
where we lived
for a while
and then abandoned
that you left in such
a small black box
there in the back of my closet
have faded to the colour
of sour cream now
and even the vibrant
envelopes that once were red
and snapdragon purple
have paled
as if left out in the rain
and summer sun
their tattered corners
crumbling somewhat
from repeated unfoldings
when words of hopefulness
mattered and numbed
the solitude of times apart
but that was long ago
when knowing tomorrows
was easy and
meant something
these love letters
are what remain
and should i dare to open
one or two
i guess
for a moment
i would remember
you
and the love we shared
caught in words
and phrases
and inimitable images
of passion perfect
the promises
of a future together
sketched out in
blue-black ink
scratched across
cheap newsprint
or costly vellum
all so well-worn now
the writing has faded
and all but fallen off the pages
these love letters
these are the dusty history books
chronicling our short
time together
stowed away now
in the backmost shelves of
an unknown library
where no one goes
and no one
but you and i
has ever been
unread by any of the great scholars
and unknown to the curious eyes
of the students of love
instead they remain
a singular collection
that tells one story
of a romantic journey
towards happiness
that seemed
without end
but there always is an end
isn't there?
these love letters
have grown old with me
and i have been proud
to be the curator
of these testaments
to the unfolding
of furious fantasies
custodian to
the moments we knew
and then forgot
moments to file away
in dark closets
as we drift
from hello
to goodbye
over and over
always hoping
always waiting
and who can say
why we write
our feelings onto
cards and letters
that age
and crumble
until those feelings
are lost
disappearing in an instant
recalling that first moment
when one heart suddenly
reaches for another heart
spark to flame
flame to fire
fire to ashes
these love letters
tumble over the bed
we once shared
and as i look over
this quilt of memories
i see your face again
the eyes that lit
even the darkest rooms
the soft pink lips
quietly whispering
to me between
gentle kisses
and for a moment
i am moved
to breathe in the scent
of youth and promise
but in the next moment
i find myself
gathering them up
and slipping each
into a large manilla envelope
addressed to you
and your new life
the one you chose
over the dreams we shared
dreams as fragile
as the paper world
where we lived
for a while
and then abandoned
