Letters relinquished

[extract taken from diary no. 34]

I do not know why but I instantly knew…

His last letter still hung on my wall, then he must have been
the words on my skin, straight across my
back carefully observing curves, and all while
it is not my eyes seeing.

Each line, a prick, a twinge;
with the moments when he lifts the pen
lets the pores breathe for a fraction
a second, for pressure to be sharper.

The sensation of gently moving ink seeping in
through my layers, trickles down, deeper in – to my blood

The dark black blends with my very being.

{when a simple letter becomes image… becomes imagination}

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