Spare
bytes.
If her computer was a chest, she
would have
Had an old collection wrapped in
loving folds,
Collecting dust; locked away for
good.
Little groups of letters, piles
of words, some
Resting slack atop each other, some
in comas
Some still clinging to the lid in
pseudo-rigor-mortis.
I read them once; they were a
pretty thing; they were
A pretty set of honest things, an
insecure delight
In dancing feet and rhymes, all
set in quatrains.
And just beneath the ink, beneath
the paper folds, just past
The cold of envelopes there
quivers a pulse.
Each byte still trembles with the
impact of the keystrokes.
But no; we lost the key under the
ground. The daisies
Cannot pick the lock, and it’s
not rage we feel
But loss again. Her words are
buried in her dreams.
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