It was her final letter,
The last love letter before
Her death. He held his breath; sat
Down in a chair, stared slowly

At the pink envelope held
Between warm fingers and thumbs.
He sniffed along the rim for
Any perfume she may have

Left for him; some hint that she
Had held it long before she
Posted; none was there. He slit
Along the top, opened up,

Took out the folded letter
With care, her sweet perfume hit
The air. He then unfolded
The paper and set it straight.

Her writing; that way she had
Of twirling her first letters,
The fine hand, the perfect word.
He read slowly through, taking

Each word in his mind, turning
It over, letting each word
Pour out its purpose, its sense,
Its love. He read a sentence,

One that took his breath away,
Which made him ache. “That last time
You held me and kissed me in
L.A, made me feel wanted,

So alive, so real. I love
You so much, and cannot wait
Until next week when we can
Seek each other out, and kiss

And love until our throbbing
Hearts give out.”  Her final words
Came after, “Love you always,”
And her scribble name above

A row of cross like kisses.
It’s hurtful what one loves best,
He mused, what one most misses.