I mailed you a letter because you said the art of writing is dead but I know how to twist words into sculptures still small enough to fit in the post box. I hope you read what I wrote. I opened my heart and sent you a poem. Someday when you’re old you will show your grand kids the written art some hopeless romantic girl undersold, prefaced with ‘it isn't anything great but maybe it will lead you to understand.’ I never claimed to be the best but my head is full of cosmos and volcanoes begging to explode black holes on paper as relics pressed between pages like a dried rose.
A relaxed sonnet. Somewhat of a rhyme scheme, 10 syllables per line until the couplet, then 11 syllable lines. 14 lines long. NOT iambic, thank god.