every year. it happens every year. close to springtime, when you can smell the warm tease in the air, that freshness filled with hope and promise. you'll be cushioned with green and flowers, with the warmness at your shoulders a lovely happy pillow. out they come. from dark closet corners, hidden underneath forget and forgive, you dream a dream about that young lover. that delicious fingertip pushes you to move forward, reach for the pile and remember.

you're older now honey. but the proof is still as fresh as when tongue met the sticky that sealed those love letters. they came for you, because of you, despite you. and they loved you. loved you little gypsy. how you flitted from here to there. wearing oversized coats and bowie pins, armed with big grin. how sweet and romantic. pure gold youth, shiny with love and lust and the occasional high dream.

you go there to remember that underneath the cold snow, toughened heart, a warmness as bright as spring, as warm as first love, as romantic as his poem, gives way to the shy lovely soul that was well loved. you never quite saw what they saw, but today you've caught glimpses. so smile dear woman. smile.