Love Letters

I want to believe they are archived
in a secret compartment
to be accessed on that odd occasion
when she longs to drift back
and remember a past excitement.

Carefully guarded
until an infrequent block of time
affords her the chance to revisit
the handwriting.

The threat of the other occupants
not bursting through the front door,
requiring all of her
and spoiling her moment
with the boisterous busyness
of a household.

Eyes following the sentences,
fingers compelled
to slide beneath the waistband
of her freshly laundered panties
to solicit a slow saturation
before dipping into the details
and expanding into a naughtier fiction.

I want to believe that the lyricism of lost love
is not reduced to a crumpled up piece of paper.