Love, Written by Hand

We waited
the way people once waited for love
without urgency,
without doubt.

Days leaned into nights,
weeks learned patience,
Months held their breath.
Somewhere far away,
a hand moved slowly,
thinking of us between words.

The letter was never promised,
Yet our hearts knew its shape.
It travelled across borders,
carrying the smell of home
or a foreign sky,
ink pressed gently by longing.

The waiting itself was beautiful,
listening for footsteps of the postman,
for the soft arrival of hope
at the door.
at last delivered it,
But love had written it.

On a coloured page,
feelings bloomed like quiet flowers.
Every curve of handwriting
proved someone took time for us,
paused for us,
missed us enough to wait.

Now words come instantly,
light as air,
without warmth or weight.
No trembling hands,
no folded corners,
or a tried petals of roses
No silence between sentences.

Those letters are gone,
But they live in memory
unseen,
deeply missed.
now treasures of a time
When love trusted time itself.