Yellow, creased, torn
Raw edges emanating
The pungent fragrance
Of archaic paper.

'Dearest'
The words curl,
Swirl in affection
In the colour of rouge.
I imagine
A frail hand
Slashing away at words
Granting no clemency
Crucifying a t there
Veiling a C here.

Some pages,
Mere ink stains
Where words left with time
Their virtue in the traces
Where her pen pressed down.
She poured her heart out
Time sent it back
But she recalls it now
A gleaming silver pen.

Mom wrote too
Youth piled in layers,
Nostalgia shelved between lines.
Faces she won't recognize now
All acknowledged,
In her bedroom drawer.