Devouring thoughts, succumbing to dreams in an online bind containing 383 entries of bundled words given solely to someone else.
Three years of constructing / eight years of loving—letters and thoughts that never quite made it to the mailbox.
They have to go somewhere, dying to be released by a virtual pen that never quite loses its ink.
It’s the only resort left if they cannot be placed into your hands.
And when the years crumble beneath the weight of the clock,
and our skin bears the age of everything but our soul,
I ask only one thing of you:
Save a little room for me.
termites of the page 