My Poetry. Love Letters.

I recall the letters you sent me,
when I was just a young lad,
perfumed, coloured paper
that often made me beautifully sad.
The love poured into your every word
brought tears to my tired eyes;
at the end of every letter,
you left a wonderful, sweet surprise.

The fighting made it harder,
never knowing if I would survive;
your words made me fiercely determined,
the constant comfort you would give.
The war was bloody and merciless,
friends dying in fearful ways,
yet all I could smell was your perfume,
and the music that your words would play.

For many weeks, nothing came;
I felt sad and utterly alone,
desperate for your signature,
dreaming only on my own.
When the mail finally arrived,
my heart would pound hard,
for you are my one and only,
my beautiful, sweet bard.

The war had finally ended—
very soon we would be as one.
Those memories are still vivid,
as we sit together beneath the sun.
Your letters kept my spirit alive;
spiritually, you were always with me.
Even when all around was tragic,
your love always made me truly free.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025