Daylight melted through faded lace shades
Casting an elegant pattern of shadows on the scarred wooden desk.
There, barely touched by the sun’s first rays, The letter lay,
Its creases marked with years of dust as soft as silk.
Morning air breathed through the
Cracked pane, ruffling the milky paper
Stained yellow with time.
Grazing past dried inkwells and caressing brittle poems
Sending shudders through the faded text,
A ghost of its former self.
Rhythmic words
Soaked up by years of the morning sun
Covered not only the paper but their pedestal as well.
Notes scrawled over the dark course grain
Gave the appearance that the desk itself
Was the masterpiece,
And not in fact, the thousands of words resting on its ancient surface.
And on this masterpiece,
Through this faded envelope
Made translucent over time,
One could make out two words.
Their meaning lost,
Discarded in space,
Forgotten,
Misplaced,
Found
And forgotten again.
Words between lovers
Who lost their sight,
Or a family
Fighting so hard to believe.
A declaration of freedom,
A sorrowful defeat or an anxious cry for closure.
Just two scribbled words, molded into one,
Linked with scrawling text,
Containing all the meaning in the world
And, at the same time,
None.