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.