Letters

I sifted through the yellowed
stack. The unmistakable crispness of age
scraped my fingertips.
Still sealed, forever sealed, this unread
holy-ground stamped with too
precise a care.
The muted ripping – breakers
crashing on some distant, undiscovered shore –
Paper grating on paper – flattened
waves scuttling back across the sand –
I blink – the heart revealed to
human eye.
Thoughts transposed, not transported;
the unnoticed glance, unexpected touch,
the soft excitement of wishing transferred from
heart to paper instead of
heart to heart.
My fingers drew with less
exactness of patient detail the
strokes arranged in ink:
“Remember that time it
rained on us, walking back from the
store? Or what about the
time – “ I stopped. Before me a
collage of “times” too
meaningful to a human
heart to be
blasphemed with impure eyes.
Where one man sees a rainy day
this unnamed writer sees
a “Time.”

I returned the paper to its
home, resealed it, and
understood too well
Letters never sent.