Shawn L. Bird

They’re talking love letters

and I hold my tongue

but not my lips.

The tilting corners betray me.

The envelopes with your distinctive hand writing

my name like a caress

glued down like a kiss,

all our hopes and dreams scribbled onto foolscap

by a fool to a fool

giddy from hormones.

And now love letters

are notes on the counter:

“Turn on the crockpot at noon”

“Running errands. Back around 3.”

Messages that mean you still

love me.