In the Old Desk
I keep his letters in the old desk,
I keep them in date order.
His handwriting looks like the confused pirouettes of a spider who fell into an inkwell,
Turning across each crisp white page, and the haphazardly addressed envelopes.
Sometimes, when it rains or I can't find anything left to be glad about
I sit by the window while the glass blurs with raindrops
And read every one.
He used to always start with "To my adventurer"
And he saw me as more interesting than I ever felt I was.
I remember us almost kissing at The Coach & Horses
And laughing so much that our faces hurt.
His letters were wild flowers;
Newly picked syllables, delivered in bunches, with all the zest of lemongrass or mint,
And the radiance of sunflowers.
He never said "I love you"
But looking back it was there
In the sweep and curl of his unruly writing
And the gift of the lines he sent me.