She sealed her letter with dabs of water

And mailed her heart to me.

In loops of ink

I wrote the same song

That neither of us could sing

To show her that we wouldn't work

Despite what her doctor thought.

Love was not a prescription

Whoever thought of that, well

It was fiction

A story that sold like cheap magazines

On the far aisles of the pharmacy.

But she sang back to me

Over the store speakers

That love itself wasn't pure.

It did not sit

On prescription shelves

With a safety seal that warned:

"Do not love

If this heart is broken."

Instead, it must be spoken

The words of forgiveness, raw and open

A language foreign to medicine.

It took a week and a half

For the post office to deliver

Each other's letters.

Email was impersonal

In person, more painful

So we wrote on paper

Waiting for our hearts to mend the other.

We are each other's doctors.