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 Until children who had long forgotten pens and lined paper Would press their fingers into the ink and indentations And know this is what devotion feels like.
Writer, Learner, Jane of All Trades