Old Forms of Communication

I wrote myself a letter,
a spell-binding cluster of impenetrable
syllables,
and tea-stains swathed across.
Watched as the day-old ink
disseminated throughout the waves of
crinkles,
washed away in a flash,
until the indication of any words
was nonexistent.

I let the ink drip down
like the blood weaving through my
skin,
closed my eyes and felt the pain
of being in the moment.
Followed the trail of
pain
and fear
and loss.

I didn’t even cry.