By Sumaiya Shorif Moon

I opened the letter given by him,
Messages are still left unseen
Letters look like small insects,

Walking on the old brown page.

Ink is spread
all over the page,

Not so clear,
It might have aged.

Oh, what a smell this is!
Only bad breath can be compared with it.
He might have touched it with ash lips,

To make me feel it is his.

What an imperfectly perfect man he is,

Every single word gives me peace.
Thinking about me, he smiled or smirked,
I am sure he slept over it.

His eyes are now closed yet shining bright,
Gently imagining my dreams at night.

How lucky I am to get this page,

That has his touch all over the place.

The ink might fade,
or insects might fly,

But memory will survive, unlike AI.

Messages are seen without the smell
I no longer wait for the bell.

Is it a start or the end,
My man wrote a beautiful letter with his hand.