Love in a box...

I have a habit of keeping every old love letter I’ve ever received. I have every note, every postcard, every attempt of poetry tucked away in a box. Mostly I forget them, and remember again when I’m looking for something else. Suddenly, there they are - every boy who ever loved me. I’ll glance at them, but it feels unkind to read them now, like this, years after they were meant for me.

This morning I started worrying that there will be nothing left of us when this is all over. I have nothing from you that I can file out of sight. No mix CDs, no hastily written notes. Nothing with your handwriting. Only your messages, which seem oddly appropriate for us. I’ve carried them in my mobile for months... A way to call you mine. The sms is an empty promise that doesn’t make sense until you find it in your Inbox and, intimidated or just too tired, quietly throw it away in the Deleted items...

You can’t ask a man to write to you. You can’t ask him, but you can write his words on your mind in colored ink and tell yourself that it’s enough, until one day it’s not. And on that day you’ll reread the old letters. You’ll spread them out on the floor. And finally, you will not be embarrassed of your need...