Ink scrawled on a torn scrap of paper incensed with dire intent and the stink of fear,
to scented stationary with loopy handwriting and 'I's dotted with hearts.
There is no real comparison, is there?
But each is a letter to those the writer cares about,
informing them of
a milestone decision.
Each letter is a turning point
that cannot be taken back,
symbolism of an end
and a new beginning.
Whichever way you look at it,
each paper, lined with letters,
is a flirt, with endings or otherwise.
Really, how different is death to love?
Are they really so dissimilar?

h.f.m.