They are more of a testament to the clock
than a race against it,
which is attributed to the duality
of the word hands in this case.
Here, your scrawl, there, the tick,
and somewhere hidden in your chambers,
is whatever caused them.
What we would imagine to be your signature—
a sort of trademark like a sunset
or your certain brand of brainwave
is found falling off the bottom of a page
dated back to April of last year,
never torn from its binding,
never addressed or destined to ride
in the front seat of a dingy mail truck
like the letters the rest of us have written.
This way, left unstamped and
sewn into a composition notebook,
they have the solidity and weight of memory
like a gravestone,
and you walk away holding the chisel
you pried out of your own hands.
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