I still have the love letters men, or perhaps boys, sent me in the past years. On some days, I read and laugh at these innocent displays but, on most days, they remain tucked in the bottom of my drawer.
It was back in high school when I first stumbled upon John Keats. Since then, my young heart have been and will always be envious of Fanny Brawne for having a man write to her with so much love and warmth.
I remember, once, a man said he’d write me a letter. I spent days and nights in anticipation but it never came. What happened in between that promise and my waiting, I do not know. Perhaps gone are the men like John Keats. Or maybe love just simply changed.
the moon casts its shine
upon the aged letters—
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