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.