I’ve saved our letters,
They’re in a box in my closet.

Nothing screams pain more than old words.
Words that meant the world in that moment,
But over time,
Entered into a downward spiral.

I loved how you curled your Y’s,
And oh-so confidently striked through your A’s.
That .38 pen fit you too well.

The floral stamps reminded me of a crowded garden,
One filled with bees, butterflies, and even grasshoppers.
You got those at the Art Museum, I just know it.

An asymmetrical heart sealed the letter,
Instantly ripped in half by my eagerness to read your words.
Did you kiss the heart where the envelope seals, just like I do?

Before flooding myself with your paragraphs,
I delicately brought the parchment to my nose.
Ambrosial, particles of your aroma trapped into the air of the envelope, spread on the parchment.

I am grateful for our endearments that are captured on paper.
No time for reliving, only reminicinsing.

Thank you. So so much.
You will never know how important it was to me.

I am an open journal.
With a lock long lost.
My pages, riddled with ink,
Lay exposed.
Wandering eyes waver from page to page.
Taking in the tales of lost loves.
Cheering for the stories of triumph.
Learning from listed lessons.
Come all who wish to witness,
Stories of me.
Stories we wrote.

A cover so unassuming.
How to even judge,
Something with so little to show for.
Title-less, addressed to no one.
The grooves and creases,
Spread across the binding.
Worn.
Lived.
Better days,
A distant memory.
Be gentler than those who payed no mind.

Pages that lay uneven.
Torn asunder,
Blacked out or burned
Many, left untouched. 
In places, the ink
has bled through.
Some made to be beautiful.
Others, defiled.
These pages, all precious.
Even the pages
I'd like to forget.

Sable seas of ink,
Flow onto parchment.
Bringing life to desolate pages.
With it
The tellings that brought this book to you.
The lies.
The hurt.
The truth.
The remedy.
A reminder to be weary of people,
The exalted who hold the pen above you.

There will come a time
When this book is shut,
Shelved for the last time.
Yet, these stories can drift on the wind.
From lips to ears.
From old to young.
The life I lived.
The Stories,
We wrote them.
My world within paper.
Am I the book, or the stories that began on those pages.