Death of the handwritten letter

Like blood trickling

From an open wound

The ink once determined

Its journey through the nib

Onto the paper.

Forming words.

Beautiful. Poignant.

Each curve; dot; dash

Every unnecessary linger

Of the pen on the paper

Betraying bits and pieces

Of the writer’s secrets...

It withers away now.

Those insinuations.

Near poetic allusions.

Loving salutations,

Made sweeter

With dabs of perfume

Kissed, with the hope

That the ink would magically

Invoke images…

Forgotten.

Unthought-of for ages.

Almost pristine

Like life stealthily taken away

At its prime.

It’s over.

All that is left is a blinking cursor

A white screen

And an unfeeling keyboard.