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  • I hold your letter in my hands; it’s like holding you.

    I want to tell you what your words do to me. I want to tell you how your handwriting makes me feel. I want to tell you about the images your writing evokes in my mind, these brushstrokes, painted out on paper. Your visions are open landscapes, your sentences are like rolling hills, and your poetry is fluid, like rivers.

    I want to tell you how much I have missed reading your thoughts. Always rapidly the first time, my eyes sweeping across the landscape like a beacon light, eliminating my fear of a hidden reef, an unhappy ending, and then again, slowly, savouring the sweet taste of each sentence, each carefully chosen word you have attached to the paper.

    Your spoken words are different. They stand out with bravado, but only for a brief moment, then they crumble and withdraw before I get a chance to weigh them. I want to call them back, copy them to paper, understand them with my eyes and my senses, feel them resonate, deep inside, but they’re irrevocably gone. When you speak to me, I can’t help but think you are a stranger. I don’t recognize your words when I can’t see them.

    These flowing lines in black ink, will they fade someday? These words, read over and over, will they eventually fade out of my memory, or will they remain, etched into my heart? Our vows, our sacred promises, whispered into the night years ago; will they wither, like the flowers in the field where we used to meet in secret before we were allowed to wear our love openly?


    I press your name to my lips, gently. Are you there? I sweep the pages across my face, and the scent of your right hand lingers beneath the words, wrapped in a veil of ink. When I close my eyes I can feel it. I tell you, I can still feel it.
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