Untitled

The box of knowledge is a library of letters.
The noise of the click is the sound that I miss.
The keys on the board are lined in such
uniform, a sense of longing. A sense of belonging.
The paper that curls, that tears and that
knows. Hunted by black ink that forever endures.
The borders and angles that bound
the system contain a heart, for that is the sole mission.
The turning of time as a new page
fades. The sounds of passions, the writer yawns,
the clicking and clacking suffocates
the room. A writer’s hand
is out of control.
A memory of love. A memory of
one’s mind. My grandfather’s typewriter
is a passage through time.