There was a time I’d write.
With fountain pen and India ink.
On handmade paper.
Words of innocent love.
Then bring out the red.
And draw a heart or two, as best I could.
Sign with a flourish.
And coyly add the ‘xxx’.
Spray a spritz of perfume.
As if the lasting scent would excite her a little more than just the letter.
Fold the sheet with gentle hands.
Find a suitable envelope.
Place the letter inside.
Add a few rose petals.
Not seal it yet, in case I wished to add another hesitant ‘x’.
A misspelt, romantic French phrase.
Or a PS.
Then, stamps affixed, take care to post it personally.
A fond kiss sending it on its way.
With the hope that the mailman would deliver what my heart wanted to say.
And then I’d wait with bated breath.