I've folded so slowly into myself.
Tucked emotions into creases,
crinkled corners stained from ink. 

Fingertips tingle from the need.
Yet my hands won't gather intent,
my heart just beats,
and I'm here,
but I'm not.

I could bleed through ink,
drops settling into words on paper.
Yet now I linger.
My clockwork heart on the tip of it all.

I protect myself so deeply,
blank envelopes with no postmark.
Destination void.

Letters filled with shards of me.
written with hopes,
and invaded by exclamation points.
some letters go unsent,
to remain unopened.