It was a different time. There were no accidental key presses Or swipes, or acts of feckless fat-fingering, And gestures weren’t reduced to fingertip gymnastics. There was enough paper, enough ink and the innocent audacity To write down our feelings in long winding sentences That began with “Dear” or “Dearest”, or “My dear, dear, darling.” I miss those cliché beginnings. They held meaning for me. Someone had taken the time To address me with a term of endearment. I couldn’t care less that everyone else used those same terms. I simply appreciated that they weren’t missing. I loved how when the writer ran out of space, and chose To cram one more thought in the margins, unaware That it would beget more thoughts, and more, until The letter, finally complete with marginalia, Looked like the treasure map that it truly was. If you paid close attention, you could just play back The actual scene of composition, feel the distractions, The afterthoughts and the gray comedy of being Human. You may detect mood. Maybe even madness. And “P.S.” had all the meaning and excitement Of a genuinely forgotten note added just in time, like: P.S. Kiss the baby for me. But by far, the single most powerful message a letter bore for me Was its confession of crumples witnessing that, at some point, It wasn't meant to be sent.
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