Thin white paper, scrunched up and stained and old. The pencil has smudged. It was never sent.

Baby, sweetheart, you perfect soul, this should be screamed, not written, but not matter how loud it could be it would not be loud enough.

I love you.

Will you love me?

The date scrawled in lazy handwriting in the corner, little red hearts surround it. Red lipstick suggestively printed in kisses down the side. The smell of the paper is sweet. It is not folded. There is no other writing. The meaning is clear.

There are tears on this one, this one which was written on a yellow Post It note and has a shoe print on it.

I'm sorry about everything, but it's all okay now.

Right?

A page, torn down the side. Red pencil around a word on page 728 of the dictionary.

love verb
to have a deep-seated affection for

Thick cream paper. Soft to touch. Lipstick smudges along the sides, the pen has run in the middle where the perfume was sprayed.

Darling,

I love you. That should be obvious, but I want you to know just in case you don't. I. Love. You.

Love,

This one wasn't even a letter, but it should be added.

He is lying in bed, putting off waking the kids. The white light fills the room and he stretches out in happy comfort. She is in the bathroom, her silk robe loosely hanging from her bare body. She leans into the mirror, painting her lips and a long practiced stroke of red.

When he comes in to shave, she is gone, making the coffee. There is a heart traced on the mirror in dripping red steam.