The End


There are a stack of letters on the bed. They are addressed to me. They are from you. They are us. Our story in vignette, saying things we mean the most when we are apart. Things we can only express when there is the luxury of time. When we fashioned ourselves Byron and Keats. It is us in alphabet one letter at a time.

A dance of words.  .ee.cummings in all lower case. It is type set clear definition, simplicity in poetry she says.

Monica Michelle