It lives in the medicine cabinet, tucked away behind the bottles that boast to banish a wide variety of pains for an evening. They’re useless against the kind that grips low in the gut at exposure to words from back then, save perhaps to shield the envelope from view.
Once, it was close to believable, that signature of love. Of something sacred, shared. That doodle, a ward against shadows lurking in the corners, a whif of betrayal in the breath of any small silence even when the promises were sickly sweet. Especially then.
We did always love a good fantasy.
Chemeia 
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