tuck them in places you knew I’d find
if I saw the edge peeking out at a particular time.
Each line carefully composed and exact,
reminders of how deep passion had grown, since the first day our eyes met, standing there
speechless.
Because words failed what hearts knew to already be truth,
even if it felt like an eternity, to finally get me to you.
You used to write me love letters, for no reason other than to tell me you had been thinking of me, my smile
and remembering every thing I did to drive you wild
when our lips met in the dark,
my hands finding yours, my body keeping yours warm,
holding you so close, as if I was afraid that someone might pluck you from my soul, if you didn’t feel my arms around you.
You used to write me love letters,
when the night before we shared heated words in moments of anger and went to bed in opposite rooms,
but sleep left us no choice except to remember why love brought us together,
and that this too would pass.
How I long for those days when you couldn’t live without my touch, my arms, my kiss…
The days before love letters became notes and frustrations took hold of explanations,
and excuses became the norm, reasoning away every layer of what I thought we had built.
You used to write me love letters, your words tucked in the corners of my heart where I swore I could never lose them,
or us
or you.
But now you’re gone,
and I can’t seem to find a single crumpled paper to tell me why.
