Under my bed is a box filled with notes.
Precious letters, far-flung postcards and silly valentines
accumulated over the years
from family, friends, exes, and former strangers.
Before even reading their words, I feel the pinch of yearning-
from the sight of someone’s handwriting, the postmark of a former home
a name that doesn’t get said any more.
They are time-stamps on old emotions.
But joyful or painful, every letter written is a snapshot of a truth:
“Somebody cared for me once.”
Beside these letters sent are cards-on-deck
blank notecards, fresh stamps, and undressed envelopes
waiting for an emotion strong enough to conjure them up
and spill out on them in ink.
After I’m done with nostalgia
I may notice those blank cards
and pick up my pen,
to send a pocket of feeling back out to someone I care for right now.
Then I stow them back beneath the place that I sleep.
Where they will sit
stationary, the sentiments of the future wait to be written,
keeping still with my old loves gone by.