I miss getting mail that has no form in cyberspace.

I miss seeing an address that helps me locate a handwriting.

I miss seeing the handwriting that helps me remember a smile.

I miss envelopes, which I sometimes open gently, with the care of a woman from a different time and a different place, or which -on different occasions- I tear open with the anticipation of what is enveloped.

I miss stamps touched by a loving hand, sometimes a tongue (so much love to bear the contact between tongue and unsavory glue).

I even miss postcards that reduce the rituals of reading to a mere act of turning over a picture.

Maybe I even miss your handwriting, your smile, your hands, your love, your words, you (turning over, with anticipation).