Lavender thoughts hung in her heart, airing
out her blood with the scent of daydreams.
She wanted to believe in love letters
but a blue fox warned her not to.
Handwriting is a dying art he said between cigar puffs. Even we know that.
She longed for the purr of an R, the double swerves of an S.
The snow brought her breath to life
as she stood by the frozen pond, staring up at the stars and she wondered
if she’d ever hold someone’s heart on paper.