You are as a keyboard is to ink on paper.
Tactile
—easy to handle—
and predictable.
Words run off of you
like the flow of displaced water:
overflowing cup.
And so many pages
and stories
and memories
and images
have been written off of you.
But you lack that uniquity
and that run-your-fingers-along-tangible-words quality.
You stare back from a harsh screen,
while ink
—dimly framed by candlelight—
does not settle,
but speaks.