There is something special,

Surely sensual about a letter,

The postie’s knowing grin,

The thickness, the weight,

The hand placed ink on paper,

The perfume painting pictures

Sketching mental images of

Other dwellers in the drawer

Where the paper’s kept.

Leaning back, anticipating,

Pressing the envelope to

My heart, my cheek, my lips,

Reading every line as if

You have traced each letter

With your fingertips on my

Naked skin, invisible tattoos

That will live long after

My body has gone, the sprites

That send scurrying shivers

Down school girls’ spines as

They sit in the dark and talk

About love and future lovers.

There’s something spiritual,

Surely sentimental about a letter,

That keeps it close, so close

That it becomes part of me

As it fades through my pocket.

© Stephen Nesbitt