It calls to mind the undying love in the flood of letters that she might find when it is too late.
Hidden in a box somewhere. Folded, placed in an envelope, addressed and stamped but never mailed.
An ink well. A desk. A voice that reads aloud the words that he writes to her.
And her letters that she never sends, wrapped in tissue in the same box where everything that he gave her lives.
The vulnerable heart that pushes, pulses the words from her lips
from her pen.
These loves are fearless.
I know this.
So why am I so afraid.
