So here is where the letter ends:
the full stop, the shoreline, the palm
outstretched and vertical, like a palace guard.
Your eyes flutter downwards, towards
the white spaces after the signature,
the faint pulse of meaning marching
between each and every line.
The words swim and flicker like koi
underwater, the pond murky and lotus-
heavy with the unwritten, the silence
after a sigh. Something drops;
you allow the single feather of a letter
to drift between your fingers and settle,
as a child would, at your feet. Beyond
the corner of your eye, you see the lines
unravel like skeins of gold, the delicate whip
of a fish's tail as it slithers away from you.
Words disband into individual letters,
and the exclamation point mourns the loss
of its new circular boots. There is so much
that needs to be said, but everything moves
beyond this instant, beyond the singular
illumination of paper and pen. This script
is used only for loss, and remembering, breaking
the reflection, shimmering, akin to a face captured
on the surface of water. A momentary motion,
insignificant to the fishes, and all is lost.
PS. Would it help it if I told you
that I will never move past these borders,
this damp riverbank of the page?