The letters we once wrote by hand were
loving masterpieces. Carefully crafted
words flowing between mind and hand
in perfect cohesion. The tractable pen
pausing to relive once more a wistful smile
or catch an orphaned tear before
soldiering on until the end.
We sealed them and in it pieces
of ourselves, glue-stuck remnants of
conversations and perfumed encounters
tumbled headlong into post-boxes
riding postal vans and postal bags
while we waited for the post to arrive
yearning, longing, loving more the caring hands
that wrote to calm us, claim us, even teach us
how to read between the lines.
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