Your hand is impressed upon yellowed paper, elegant and aloof. I can feel the press of your fingers flowing through the pen, witnessed with ink and proof. I can hear the lilt of your voice in the kink and sway of each word you chose. Just a few lines left to puzzle after, just a few sentences left to serve the rest of memory. Word after word drizzled onto paper. Every meaning long since spent.
It is the romance of the moment that I miss. The certainty of this hand-crafted missive, the soundtrack casualties and the play-list misses. Memory mingles with this worn out evidence, the notes left beneath the wiper-blade, windshield letters and rainy-day eyes. The windows flecked with self magnifying droplets, casting vague shadows from window to wall. The rain that came staying all night long.
The written word wears through, seeming weak and hollow after everything has been said. It remains creased and folded, tucked away as once precious, discovered between the covers in a book read a thousand years ago. Some vain respite to all the usual wounds, hurt feelings and broken hearts. A small memento of the way the world would be. A steady hand and an earnest oath, the dried up blue gone as brown as the dust, as wrong as any bet I ever made.
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