The most tender thing—
to write thy beloved a handwritten letter.
Scarred? Nay—
Perhaps the most intimate art of all?
Intimate, indeed.
Seated at the desk,
quill trembling in hand,
the candle’s musk weaving shadows upon the page,
silence speaking louder than speech,
I seek the words that dare capture thee—
thy laugh, thy sigh, thy soul.
To write is to love;
to love is to inscribe upon paper
the very beat of one’s heart.
How shall I show my devotion?
By ink, by pause, by the trembling of my hand
that traces thy name like a sacred prayer.
Shall I press thy favorite flowers within these leaves,
letting petals whisper what my tongue cannot?
Shall I fold my longing into every crease,
each stroke of ink a heartbeat, a vow?
Ah, letters!
Thou art the truest love language—
more intimate than breath,
more faithful than spoken word,
a love eternal, folded within parchment,
waiting for thine eyes to awaken its soul.
—Faye
Dec 14, 2025
Dec 14, 2025 at 1:53 PM UTC
The most tender thing—
to write thy beloved a handwritten letter.
Scarred? Nay—
Perhaps the most intimate art of all?
Intimate, indeed.
Seated at the desk,
quill trembling in hand,
the candle’s musk weaving shadows upon the page,
silence speaking louder than speech,
I seek the words that dare capture thee—
thy laugh, thy sigh, thy soul.
To write is to love;
to love is to inscribe upon paper
the very beat of one’s heart.
How shall I show my devotion?
By ink, by pause, by the trembling of my hand
that traces thy name like a sacred prayer.
Shall I press thy favorite flowers within these leaves,
letting petals whisper what my tongue cannot?
Shall I fold my longing into every crease,
each stroke of ink a heartbeat, a vow?
Ah, letters!
Thou art the truest love language—
more intimate than breath,
more faithful than spoken word,
a love eternal, folded within parchment,
waiting for thine eyes to awaken its soul.
—Faye
#poetry #poem #love #letters #romanticism
Request permission to use this poem