I trailed my fingers,
On the dusty table top;
Leaving behind clean, neat tracks,
That began and ended so abruptly.
The blinding sun was high up,
In the sky.
The ancient fan whirled,
In vain above me.
I rummaged through the books,
Aged, worn out, well thumbed ones,
The bindings cracked.
These letters old, tied up,
Faded and a rich yellow,
Kept with care between,
Two frayed pages,
Full of love, endearment,
Promises to give the whole world,
Tender caressing words and-
A thousand and one other things;
Someone’s dreams and desires,
Beautiful and fragile as gossamer,
And hopefully requited.