Inky blood fills the paper
with the unspoken
apologies, confessions,
silent misgivings
and lost hopes.
I reread your letters,
reread ... reread
looking for something
that I might have missed.
I trace the curve of your script,
my finger follows the trail
and lingers,
waiting,
waiting
for more.
Instead this must be enough,
your spirit spilled on paper
suspended in time
marked with earth.
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