A misplaced comma, 

an extra apostrophe,

page numbers missing;

a million little things to fix

that ought not to

take away the aura

of the piece but make me

stop and scream

How reckless

to leave the reader in such a mess

when they should only

focus on the very best

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I’m digging through letters for clues 
For endearments that will fill my cup

They spill over and fall away
As they come in with a rush

Too many to grasp
I pick them up one by one

In hopes to hold onto
Little pieces of you

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