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?