Box of Letters

I'm sitting here thinking about a box of letters. I'm thinking about men. Those that wrote them, and others. I'm thinking about a house on Future street. It was my house. I'm thinking about midwest fields and forests, a New Yorker in the Caribbean, a poem I naively wrote decades ago. 

I'm wondering. Do I wish I had this box of letters? Letters from men, professing their love in prose and poetry. The passion I evoked returned in this emotional expression. Triggered by feelings, they put pen to paper and wrote to their beloved. Do I regret burning them? That act of power as payment?

I'm thinking about that box of letters. It's wrong to say men don't have emotions. They do. I wish I had that box of letter to remind me of that. But I don't regret burning those letters. I had to release them, their possibility and failures - their bliss and emptiness - sentiments on the wind, timeless in your heart.