Each Sunday, before the alarm started ringing,
Before school children would gossip while heading to school,
She would be awake.
She would be awake,
with her hair combed and clothes ironed,
In front of the wooden door:
He would send his usual letter.
His rose-scented Sunday letters to her
With a tinge of pink love,
His gentle touch and smell—
Disclosing her emotions of waiting.
Years pass by, the sunlight faints,
The bushes grow,
And the mailbox remains hungry
For his most awaited hearty letters.
She no longer gets up early,
No longer does she stands out of her house;
Someone calls her for a new "email"—
His "modern" friend.
His email to her—
Like that of dry lips, pale cheeks,
A sullen smile and a dry rose.
The emotions burn, the white walls laugh,
His touch's gone, and so is his scent—
Everything dies as she stares at the screen.
__________________________________________
A/N: Don't you think we should bring the tradition of writing letters back again in this 21st century? Share your thoughts, and tap the little star if you have enjoyed this! :)
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the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
