Love’s Labors Lost (revisited)

by braveandrecklessblog

she had moved many times in her life

not unexpectedly

some belongings became lost

were left behind


or on purpose

when they caused her pain

didn’t fit her life anymore

couldn’t be squeezed into the overstuffed car

before making her escape


boxes had been ruined in a basement flood

in Dominic’s house in Upper Darby

flotsam and jetsam from her previous lives

left waterlogged



she didn’t care overmuch about things

they were just things after all

but she lamented the lost photographs

the letters

the cards

from old friends

would-be lovers

and those she had passionately embraced

shared parts of her life

her heart

her bed


its wasn’t just the words themselves that she missed

though she longed to read them again

to hold objective proof of what had come before

of who she had been before

in a history gone hazy around the edges

remembered through the unreliable lens

of here and now

she also missed the tangibility of those missives


she liked the immediacy of electronic communication

but longed to touch those envelopes

those brightly colored cards

the thin slips of paper yellowed with age

that had been held in other hands

that had been sealed by other’s saliva

she missed the distinctive handwriting

that instantly reminded her of the sender

the random rings from coffee cups

placed unthinkingly down on the pages

the smudges from ink-stained fingers

the raised bubbles left by tear drops

as if those cards

those letters

still held the physical essence

of those she had lost


3 Comments to “Love’s Labors Lost (revisited)”

  1. “she missed the distinctive handwriting

    that instantly reminded her of the sender” — this line stole my heart ❤

    • thank you– loss has been on my mind. When I was in my 20s living in an apartment with too many roommates, after hearing too many horror stories about people losing all their possessions in fires, I started to keep a basket at the foot of my bed so I could grab it quickly should the worst happen. It was full of those letters and cards and photographs. My past in one basket. Hmmm. . . maybe the start of another poem

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