Her

Fresh-faced, tear-stained or drowsy with fatigue, he can't see me. He can't be beside me. Wade with me, sleep with me. His love through words is my desire. He hugs me as I read; intimate and warm. Between lines, in prose, a song to my heart, for my heart.

I wait by the windowsill, potted cacti threaten to prick my arms, I'm not fazed. The postman knows my name, he calls from the picket fence every time, by the sprouting daisies and evergreen. It's hand delivered, special. The letter is all I see.

Him

I lick the seal closed. My name signed, in black ink and cursive. Cologne sprayed, a rose drawing on the envelope as my signature to her. New York to London. Across the sea. The fee ridiculously high, yet I pay. Every single time. Passion sent, love sent, intertwined.

Stamped red, first class, then halfway around the world until it meets its end. The recipient who is my beginning and my future. Through the sky, on its journey to my love and the sunshine and the white picket fence. I count the time until I receive mine.