The art of letter writing has fallen between the cracks;
yet I admire the messiness of hand printing chaos
and a signature for more than eftpos or debit needs.

Sometimes, I spill ruby ink onto the pages, reclaiming
the beauty of red for more than editing adjustments,
tumbling and twirling the pen, so my ambitious letters

can form the basis of non-bill mail for friends;
replacing the barren loneliness of a blank page,
or trigger a thought or association I treasure.

I like the idea of purple graphemes voraciously
collecting together, especially superficial,
before they moan and whimper below your hand.

When reading about linguistics, I first thought
grapheme, phoneme and digraph were oppositional,
revolting, tormented by conjoined formation.

But I have since reconsidered them complementary;
symbiotic, meaningless without the imbued
connection – like misplaced hieroglyphics.

I want to understand language, rather than
change its meaning repeatedly and falsely,
to absorb letters like soil subsumes water.

Hand-written messages seem to be engraved upon
a pillaged earth, like oasis in a desert. When
complete, light and forsaken waterstains remain,

but alongside the smile I wear with each
letter I pen or receive, there is also a distant
memory of being part of a broader story that is

lost in translation.