A Letter

Dearest *****,
I see you in your letters,
In your telltale calligraphy,
Swooping arches in your m’s
might mean uncertainty.
I imagine now you printing,
Ereyesterday
Did it hurt your hand to write it
as it does for me to stay
teetering in limbo;
confess or simply wait?
I cherish what I have of you,
be it for naught,
or fate.

You sent a letter yesterday
on paper white as snow,
twirling ink scrawled onto it
I drank it down
and took each blow
“Dearest friend,”
“Companion,”
The way you refer to me
Throwing sugar in my wounds,
What good natured cruelty!

The words I read and treasure
Came from you, your mind and pen
My greatest joy in reading
You detail where and when.

My letters for you are scribbles,
while yours are works of art
and yet you keep them all the same
far be they from your heart.

As I savored every letter,
moved my eyes from line to line,
I found a scribble at the bottom
Three words as red as wine.
Crossed out and smudged,
though they were,
the letters did align

Despite your fruitless efforts
I read the phrase right through.
My cheeks, they burned,
My heart, it turned,
For dear, I love you too.

-*****