i wrote a letter once.

i can't remember
exactly what it said, but
i remember
my twitching finger,
a fountain pen,
and ink of my own heart.

words were scribbled,
one after the next.
words of the weather,
of the bird perched by my door,
of laughs, of life,
of love.

i wrote it—the letter,
the plea—
in hopes that
things would change.
i heard, once, that power
resides in cleverly crafted words.

the words, they do
escape me now.
but the idea behind them does not.
i know i sealed it;
and i left it
in your loose fingers.

i wonder if you got it.