A few lines written to love, on letters exchanged and preserved

Dear love,
Have kept a bunch neat,
Clipped and poised,
Letters of you and those envelopes
And that key, which you have left me
As possession,

Don't know how long will I have to keep them,
And what treasure they would mean to
You, say, after a decade or a score,
From today,

But can't send them back ,
For they were sent to me,
And when were they sent,
They had  purportedly meant
A lot ,

What did they mean to me,
Can that be explained to anyone? Barring you?

So thought of writing lines few ,
On them,
Those letters and envelopes;

Well, the envelopes always had that smell of yours,
Sent at different times, they had definitive essence too, of times , of little moments,
One June , whence you sent one,
It had the smell of spices,
You, I remember, distinct, were busy thence,
With kitchen and houseworks,
There had to be a ceremony at your house, your brother's wedding,
O how busy you had been ,
Spending most of the time at the kitchen, helping
Your mother and aunts,
With long preparation of lunch and suppers of relatives and guests,

That was a time,
A time that surely had been,

Then one envelope for August,
You had some exam, I suppose,
The envelope had a short letter,
Full of algorithm,
And binominal theorem ,
Words looked like math,

Then another for October,
That year,
Autumn perhaps broke in full ,
Your envelope brought scent of sheuli blossoms,
And also of those wild flowers that those meadows at your town had then,
Smell of them, came to me, through your hand,
You wrote like cottony clouds floating,
Yes, they were brought to me,
Right into my heart,
A little wet against the perspective of a blue blue sky,

Another December had nothing but oranges and dahlias,
By the slight hint of them
I knew how beautiful must have been those dahlias at your garden,
And orange peels were you surely rubbing on skin, mixed with a bit of Honey,
I could see almost your glowing face there,
Resplendent, looking at me,

Then one of January,
It had the most flowery fragnance,
Were you then using that parfum?
Lavender? Was it so?
Perhaps,

February you wrote nothing,
Only I sent you scent of spring,
Stories and tales ,
Of rivers, skies, oceans,
Of people whom I met,

March was like absolutely a five act play,
A masque which you sent
Reminding me of
Mid summer night's dream,
A dream within a dream,

One of April,
Was like having a daughter,
You made me pregnant with so much of Love and poetry,
That I wrote copious,
From Dawn to dusk,
Catching whatever came to me,
A yellow sun upon a building's terrace looking like a ball of tennis, glowing,
A calm lake invigorating,
A sleepy village with farmers and peasants reaping and singing,
A Spanish song about a man who had
Nothing to think except love,
A tune alien heard by me -
All came and got wrapped in words,
Did I not send them away too?
For you?

Love,
Month of May was what we started with,
With hint of rains and smell of fading spring,
From there it perhaps all did begin,

There are all there how kept,
In forms of letters and alphabets,
Enveloped,

What would they mean after, say, a few thousand years?

Nothing, other than some very private possessions,

But were they ever been private?
Can anything remain ever private
With us,
When we write so,
And write copious,
When we write not to forget or to remember just,
When we write only being driven by the passion of Love?

Can love ever be called obsolete?
If so, then , love, I can surely claim,
All those letters and envelopes would become meaningless,

Otherwise,
They would stay,
Even if I am gone,
You are too,
For they are sent and received,
Like moments of the big clock of eternal Time,

They will stay,
For they have made to space.

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