Fourteen Lovely Letters


They are the only ones who are there for me. I am the only one who reads them. Fourteen lovely letters with tear stains and smudged ink. Fourteen amongst 157 pages. Fourteen liberty stamps from the soldier. From my dreams I can hear him, but others just laugh and don’t appreciate such things.

Their strength is secret. They send secret words between us. They fly up and they touch down and grab me between their tin lines and lift to the sky with urgency and never quit their journey. This is how they come.

Let one forget his reason for being, they’d all sit like a frame upon a shelf, each collecting dust with age. Write, write, write letters cry when I cry. They speak.

When I am too worn and too blurred to keep moving, when I am a flat page against a sea of thoughts. When there is nothing left to wait for. Fourteen who show despite all circumstance. Fourteen who escape his hand and don’t forget to find mine. Fourteen whose only reason is to keep me going.