Nugatory,
Petty,
Vain,
The way you trace your lips across the page
That is my body.
You lick from side to side like a pre-stick envelope,
Catching little papercuts,
and tinny blood is dripping down out throats,
From ttlhese wounds that didn’t even bleed.
And yet we pay the postage
And the postman comes
He takes away our love letters
(Delicate cursive, signed with care)
Fills our box with all the mail
(Flyers, and junk, the occasional bill)
and we all leave empty-handed.
But somewhere our letter surfs in the abyss of paper and ink.
Between the sending and the receiving we get the time to think
Of all the things we should have said,
The things we should have did,
Before we let our blank loose-leaf become stained
By your pen.
