Writing letters I won’t send
If I sent them the end of things would leave a bitter taste on my tongue and force me to curl up and be gone from this place
or it wouldn’t
But the end of things is invisible and always in question because of the means
If I write a letter it becomes set down on paper
Why is it paper cuts?
All I want to say is how much I miss a moment I never had but in my mind
If it’s on paper then it’s a bare shadow of the leaping grasping thing in my head
Shall I tie it to the page and force it to form to the surface in neat and tiny print?
it’s too heavy for paper
it’s too formless to fit within the strokes and bends of my written mind
On paper I can force it to burn and dance outside the confines of my own head
Inside my head it forces me on goading me with guilt or inspiring me with innocence
I never know which until it’s pressed into the page and my perspective can see it from somewhere other than the inside where I can only catch glimpses of it out of the corner of my mind’s eye.
