I bought for you a valentine—
an antique one, it seems.
Two birds on a Clematis vine;
first mailed on the fourteenth

of nineteen hundred ten that year,
a Wednesday morning, too.
She held it as a souvenir.
I picture her like you,

who always keeps the smallest things
and likes to have them near.
The sentimental thoughts they bring
sustaining through the years.

He didn’t write a message there.
Her name is hard to read.
The card’s a little damaged where
he calls her Miss Louise.

Let’s share his missive with the world,
a public Valentine
he wrote in hope to please a girl:
Louise, will you be mine?

She’s doubting his sincerity,
his feelings are a crime.
She thinks he acts impulsively
and never takes his time.

He lacks that practicality
it takes to build a nest,
with one small technicality:
he knew the girl’s address.

This card we both bought hopefully
though decades since have passed
is posted here as poetry
romantically, to last.


©2024 Mateo Vélez