We once wrote letters.
Yes we did.

Our pens were feathers,
some mallard flew askew,

for the sake of our betters.
Love sat quieter, waiting

in between replies. Sicker
before the next port,

of consumption, of fleshless
longing, or a comma short,

to complete surety. Inkless
means loveless, we were lost

coyly, in the silent gaps midst
words, we lived in the hovering

unsaid. In ties of cursive lines
we were wed.

xx

if you read this as eks, eks,
the last line says, contra-hex

if you read this as kisskiss

…yes pls.

01/06/2013

Author's Note: glass half full

Posted on 01/07/2013
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