Elegy for the Handwritten Letter

So many of my romances have been measured in paper love letters:

Those tangible testimonies to intense enthusiasm for another.

I let their piles grow on my bedside table as passion progressed;

Then, when the ink and desire stopped flowing,

I buried them in a sacred casket in the closet,

A cardboard box carrying the epitaph: “Proof That I Was Loved”.

Contemporary communication means

I’m losing these palpable paper trails.

I’m losing the ability to hold history in my hands as it happens.  

How will I know who loves me without their

Freshly drying signature at the end of their testimony?