I write with a bull point pen
you choose to write with a finger ,
in a universe where stars burn bright to show their existence
I write on a sheet of paper then crumble it away with shame
but you write without a doubt in mind
letting your messages run through quantum caves

after finding the urge to share my questions I write
“What is your world like?” I asked
“Do you wear faces, do you wear masks?
Do trees grow tall without touching the clouds,
do rivers run wide not caring about a dead end near?
does your moon light the ocean’s tides
so that it can be seen as a sign for the lost souls?”
after waiting for a while you finally responded

From the other end comes a reply,
etched in symbols that twist and fly:
"Our moons are many to count on all our fingers,
our skies are green but change drastically to match the seasons,
our thoughts are shared to one another, but not often seen.
We do not speak, but here we write,
to know your dreams, your days, your nights.
Your sun seems warm, and your air sounds sweet;
how strange that our words have made us meet."

as letters drift through time and space.
Each missive bridges voids unknown,
a friendship built through words alone.
And though we’ll never meet in form,
our hearts will beat warm through cosmic storms