No Title

There were once ten fingers, in motion towards the same end.
While five gripped closely the ink pen, five kept time.
They moved to keep the mind behind the scratchy letters working.
They moved to entertain themselves as they went.

The pen, itself feeling exhausted willed the letter to be over.
It wouldn't be read anyway, it was too full of errors.
The hands, far from deft, more daft, had mispelled so much.
The eyes, far from keen, had ignored the gramatical inconsistancies.
And the lips, as they read it aloud, knew it was a lie.
Feelings can change even while you are trying to express them.
Things evaporate like steam, or breath in a cold room.

Constants become variables, and mistakes in judgement are made.

So two hands of flesh sat idly while two clock hands swept past.
Time moved on. More breathy ghosts released from the lips.
The feet took over keeping time, while the ten fingers waited.
Looking outside the window, the world looked happy.
Quiet perhaps, but content.

I sit here waiting for a realization to strike me.
I am hoping for something new to come tear me out of my seat.
For a dream to drip from my eyes onto the paper, and be lovely.
I might never send you that letter.
My body aches and creaks along with me, my loyal companion.
Why am I so tense? It's just another way of saying I love you.