It was a letter written of love,

Not to be misconstrued of anything more or less than a poignant goodbye.

The dark ink incontinent,

Like a child sleeping sound.

Ink drooled.

Wet, and leaving behind one partial print.

A keepsake, an ornament to place next to your pillow as you sleep.

With one slow flick of my tongue,

Our fate was sealed.

We will never be justly blended,

Or paint each other in soft acrylic hues.

The smell of paper,

As it falls slowly into a slivered space.

As my forest burns a thousand words.

No longer left bottled.

Tiny prisms that leave behind ruined tomorrows.

With my signature godless and grey.

A postage due,

I can no longer afford.

 I finger this forgotten letter.

Now dressed in dust, crumbs and

What I once viewed as loss.