It was once an empty sheet,
silent, weightless, plain.
But ink kissed its surface,
and suddenly, it breathed
a fragment of you,
sent across miles.

The paper is no longer paper.
It is your voice,
folded between the lines.
It is your hand,
pressed into every curve of ink,
as though you were sitting beside it,
beside me.

How strange,
that distance loses its teeth
when I hold this fragile thing.
It feels as though my heart
travels back to you,
through the path your words carved,
through the scent still resting
on the page.

This letter is not mere stationery
it is proof.
Proof that love survives oceans,
that time cannot dull longing,
that something as small as ink and paper
can outweigh the heaviest miles.

What gift could be more precious
than this?
A piece of your soul,
placed gently in my hands.
It tells me stories,
it holds me close.
It will stay with me
as priceless as the heartbeat
that wrote it.