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2001-10-29 || 10:47 p.m. || this is a garden. this is my address. || they are both left handed. he is self conscious about his handwriting. he sends postcards typewritten and stamped with inky fingertips. printed text from three different typewriters and a computer stationed on the end of the spacious counter in the bathroom, paper taped to the card hastily, opened mouth and with a wandering tongue. she secretly prefers his handwriting and the effort of deciphering what each character is, a k or an h. an r or an n. cursive and printed, slammed up against one another, strung together with hesitant pauses and chewing on pen caps. they bleed feeling. they betray intonation and true intentions. she takes great pride in her handwriting, having been the runner-up in mrs. larkey's third grade handwriting competition. she lets each letter down gently, one after another, left to right, taking care to not smudge each newborn word with the side of her hand as she crosses the page. she offers words like flowers. she wants him to pluck the letters like petals. she loves me she loves me not, until he is left, miles away, processed and stamped and weighed for correct postage, with hollow sentences straight and fibrous like stems. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |