the explosive bloom of a thousand sun drops across the ocean;
a million ink marks stain the letter i wrote to you
like a word actually matters in the grand scheme of
every fault
it matters to me that you receive the hundreds of
receding stories left in the envelope that i
wrote down and scrapped
the sun hurts my eyes, etching emblazoned symbols
for the memories i never got to make but
somehow they feel real enough to write the
emotions to in a letter never to discuss
who's going to stop me, after all, when the sun drops,
and the mailbox is off to bring
a thousand fluttering butterflies onto a plane that spans
the distance between the sky and the earth
will you even hear the words and
voices and symbols i meant to write but never got to
or will you just see ink stains written,
rewritten,
rewritten,
rewritten,
rewritten,
rewritten,
until i forgot what i meant?