Shortage of Love

I can't remember now why I thought I ever had a shortage of love. I don't know why I felt unworthy, base, wretched, low....unapproachable, unlovable.
That is not me, or rather I am not not that.
There is love everywhere, you can breathe it- all the time, really. Like lavender and rose, like clean sheets, jasmine and the ocean. I am doing that now, its scent wrapped in my hair, in my dress.

Letters

I long for many things Victorian, among which is the letter. Part craft where we build our empire of words and self, part art where the blank canvas of paper accepts our vision. We are revealed and set free from the restraints of body language and stuttering fears, of being interrupted, misunderstood.
Here we can carefully explain ourselves, or vomit bile, mock, lament, hate/love, establish ourselves in permanence until the ink fades, the hard drive fails.
What I write is my truth at the moment I write it, concrete and undeniable. When the truth changes the words cannot, new words are written but the original text still stands as a challenge to keep us true and to make sure we know how each phrase has an immortal life, creates a map, a path of our geniuses, our misperceptions.
I crave the formality of the 18th century note, the language flowery and filled with metaphor, polite inquiries, and illicit intentions; written as a labor with a quill pen by candlelight, artfully folded, sealed with wax and delivered by post.