I would write you everyday.
Poems and scribbles and notes,
Until you learned
The unevenness of my hand
The habits of my penmanship
The chaos of my scrawl.
In a world of dying paper and ink
They would save every scrap
Torn from the back of notebooks
Jotted down on well-folded receipts
They would compile anthologies of my sweet
nothings
nothings
Until children who had long forgotten pens and lined paper
Would press their fingers into the ink and
indentations
indentations
And know this is what devotion feels like.
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