Handle with Care

Handle with Care
How could I ever entrust
these words,
finally excavated
after years of burying
and unearthing,
to the flimsy white vehicle
and one pitiful stamp
that will carry them
from my heart
to your eyes.


I would rather they travel
on a purple cushion
in a golden carriage
surrounded by guards
ready to catch fragile sentences
dislodged by bumps in the road.


Perhaps they should be sealed
in shatter-proof capsules
catapulted across time and space,
programmed to land precisely
where and when you are ready
to receive them.


Yet, no matter how I send them,
I will still have to risk
using the wrong words,
choosing the wrong time.
I will still have to risk
your eyes seeing my handwriting,
your hands discarding the letter,
before your heart can read it.

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