The Note

The sound invokes an unexpected recollection

of feeding a fire in autumn,

as the crumpled paper smolders in my hand.

Your words are bleeding  from shell fragments

of saltwater tears: a blue watercolour;

an ocean of sorrow.

How long did it take you

to write those two lines?

I read them several times,

                                   those lines,

the shortest and most tragic of stories.

If this page held a record

of the pain in your fingertips

and the side of your hand

as it ran across the paper,

it may just burst into flames.

I tell the doctor

                           ‘She wrote a note,’

then I go to your b e d s p a c e

to meet the author.

~~June Briar Kelsey

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