Waiting For Miss Write.

 

“I like you”, I said,

without the need for thumbs pointing to the sky.

She smiled, a beautiful smile.

Her face unlike a circle with U lips.

 

We parted on a kiss

that had nothing to do with sex or X.

Promising that we’d talk again

later in the week.

 

The phone box on the corner

wasn’t mobile - so I was.

I walked there and waited

to trigger the time-synced bell.

 

I knew how much the call was costing

as I inserted coins.

Oh my God, how we laughed out loud -

without the need for acronyms.

 

You said you’d write, using pen and ink,

studiously thinking about each word.

The anticipation, as I wondered when

and what you’d have to say.

 

Old fashioned, maybe,

but every slope of your pen

would etch your beauty deeper

everywhere it touched the paper.

 

Transfixed for days behind the door

each time a footfall echoed on the drive.

Not eating, sleeping,

thinking of anything but her.

 

Then, when hope had all but gone,

there was no ping - just a reassuring clatter,

as my letterbox gasped and

the letter dropped on the mat.