Letters penned to people and people penning these letters to people. Eyes reading such letters and scanning the ink. Those very same eyes becoming almost blotchy from the penned letters. Lips, dry and craving, reading letters slowly yet quickly under a hushed tone to hear each syllable kiss the ink within the letter, penned to the people. Everything, never said and said before, in a letter addressed to the door and signed in the most precious of ways, never will be understood when the flick of the wrist lifts the ink away from the page and creases adapt to the letters body and sealed and subtracted from sender to reader and read for an eternity, even if only soaked in once by greedy pupils. Penpals. Lovers. Enemies. Family. Friends. Needs and wants. All slightly sealed and pressed, a momento of what was, what wasn't and what couldve been.
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