Letters

If I had the paper of all the trees,
the ink of all the octopuses,
the quill of every feather in the world,
Father Time himself would not stop me
and I would write you every word I had within me.
I would pour myself onto paper
like honey on warm bread,
and send myself to you through red boxes
and the calloused hands of countless men,
over many green miles of land and water.
The fragile cellulose bird of my making,
marked with the place where you lay your head,
would fly and not rest
until my heart was in your hands.