By Anisha Gupta
Distance makes the heart grow fonder,
As the words in my letters get sweeter.
A wisp of pigeons,
Fan their wings;
And whisk away the whiskey-kissed letters.
Sealed until they reach the melting heart of my dame.
What’s the reward for this little postman,
Some love and grain;
As they peck beaks on stamps.
A stamp of their love,
Kept enclosed in the jars of the reminiscent;
Until opened again.
Rosaline, my dear
I don’t see much fabric to your cursives,
Where has the silk to your tongue gone?
Why do you brace the lovelorn mess, that my heart is?
Such that every fortnightmy epistle mourns,
The death of our affection before it sets to reach your threshold.
I don’t see the perfect wax-seal to secure your insecurities,
Wrapped tight into the two-fold paper feelings.
Love me again my lady,
Before the cracked petals in my pocket leak
Into an incomplete palette of many ways,
You could ever write to me your longing.
The indigo piece of your bustled garment,
Still lays between the envelope mouth.
Such that it blots into my aged hand,
Reminding me of my pale heart that dies every day,
At the thought of your lost warmth infused in your postcards.
By Anisha Gupta
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