The attic holds a box of past,
A chest of love that once was vast.
The letters tied with ribbon blue,
Still smell of ink, still hum with you.

I read the lines, the hopes, the fears,
The echoes bright from younger years.
The dreams you carved, the words you spun,
The silent prayers beneath the sun.

But letters fade, and pages thin,
Yet love remains, untouched within.
For though the ink may start to die,
Your voice still lingers in the sky.