The In box memory.

The In box memory.

There is no excuse

The pen is not mislaid

Paper is not in short supply

But writing is.

Hand written notes

Letters once penned

Are carried now, in clouds.

And I guess that is

As it should be

In a modern world.

But I wonder,

Do they still weep

In their unfolding

The tender,

Gentle flattening

Of old dried paper

With its curled edges

Faded pages

Slowly turning to powder

Every line studied

And memorised.

Each word followed,

Their meaning

Caught in the throat.

Ink smudged with

A life time of tears

Phrases obscured,

As if by blood.

Truths visited in disguise

Written as poetic verse

Or language so dense it was

Drowned in formality

And a dash of cologne,

Lily of the Valley

Or an expensive Chanel.

On occasions

Pretty words,

Splashed across the page

As if a dam had burst.

Spewing frothy sentences

That bubbled

In a scatter of kisses

Which in time

Have come to hurt

As much as

The letters you rarely read

Those post marked with regret

Addressed in sincere apology

All of them,

Yours to keep,

Written just for you.

Hidden in a wooden box

At the bottom of a drawer,

Locked away.

The key on a chain

Around your neck,

Kept close to your chest.

A heart full of secrets

That can only be guessed

And never read by just anybody.

At least not until you are dead

And perhaps,

Not even then.