Old letters are nostalgic, endearing even, written between family and friends.
However, there is always something sinister about love letters; even as the love gets consummated.
Love letters are out of this world, they do not belong here, except for those stolen moments they are written and read, re-read, and re-read for quite some time.
Like stealthy kisses, fateful impulses, they are born out of fervent passions, minds in a whirl, momentous ecstasies, or desperate agonies.
Like fireworks on the sky, magical flowers that sprout and wither overnight,they are glorious, yet ethereal in their own accord.
Scandal and shame always await them,or worse, the inevitable purging.
But the worst happens to those that manage survival and hold honorable places in chests,
for they lose their lusture like aging actors.
True love like wine gets better with age,love letters decay, fade over time.
Like illegal drugs, adversely therapeutic, they lurk in locked chests, these phantoms of your past.
As you pass by them in silent weary afternoons, an eerie solitude creeping over, unsaid,
you first hear them smirking and giggling,slowly turning into painful groans;
finally they come, the unmistakable shrieks soaring to such levels, as though you locked them just seconds before...
Like devilish naughty kids, they plead at you with sly eyes, asking to be with you, promising their atonementyour heart wrenches to forgive, but know that you shouldn’t
Nevertheless,You budge, giving in to their victory, undoubtedly as you must.
with streaming tears you embrace them, spend some happy hours with these fugitives,
cooing with them over the past, only until it’s time to get back to the present.
you then watch them go back to their graves, carrying undue poignancy,
Every time a bit more aged,
and more dog-eared than the last.