no longer taking time
for handwritten letters.
mixing paperscent,
pen and perfume...

a fading breed of art.
one so holy where you may
hold lingering souls in your hands.
read through the teardrops on the lines.

trace the written timeline
of feeling and emotion.
hear the turning of pages
when so deep into the windswept story.

and i miss the bruise on my finger
where the pen, leaning into me,
poured its magick.

and i regret the silence of forgotten notes.
and i feel the hollowness of empty mailboxes.

through words on the screen,
my tears miss the pages and
fall into my lap.
unoticed by the reader.
my crumbling penmanship unheeded
through words so clean and crisp and fabricated.

liberty and floral stamps forgotten.
34 cents and much (much) more, wasted.

*ink drying...*

06/11/2002

Posted on 06/11/2002
Copyright © 2025 Bethany Lee