Near an arched window is a desk built of auburn oak and ink spills.
On this desk its mistress keeps her notes and feathered quills.
Its one creaky, rusty drawer, is a treasury of white envelopes,
Awaiting its turn to be filled so with its letters it can elope,
Find itself be gently uncovered by its mistress’ lover,
And watch them restlessly flip its contents and discover,
Her yearning so great, it demands infinity to converge,
Find the two ends of the cosmos to gauge her immense urge.
Though the envelopes had bid some of their brothers goodbye,
None ever returned, and none have left in a long while,
The desk whispers, “Perhaps her lover’s desire is too latent.
They haven’t written, neither has she, so her pages remain vacant.”
But the white envelopes, with hues of brown at its four corners,
Cry, “Why does she keep us still? To let us be mourners?”
Alas, the mistress did not accept her romance to be dead,
With willful delusion, she awaits their response instead.
Her satin sleeves touch the desk every so often,
Though it hopes otherwise, her conviction doesn’t soften.
The arched window continues pouring sunlight onto her desk,
Inviting her to once again write letters grandiose and picturesque.
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