untitled series no. 73

I try my best to save letters,

Not those mailed to me,

But those left behind by the backspace.

I save vowels to write edits,

Hoping to save the letters which can still provide value to messages, essays, or lab reports,

I save the ends of green onions, or the butts of lettuce, with the hopes that their sacrifices will not be made in vain.

I use the arrow keys to try and determine which fat can be trimmed and which As or Os can be retained for each recipe of wordcraft.

I save slips of fabric, old jeans, and ripped nylons,

In the hopes of extending their life and their purpose,

I try my best to save letters.

It is not a perfect harvest,

But I still participate,

Leaving behind shoots which can be reserved for later crops, or left alone to repropigate the field when I have confirmed my assignment submission.

I try my best to save letters,

I cannot bear to think myself wasteful,

I cannot bear to erase paragraphs of text,

Leading to sometimes unintelligible essays of old thoughts mingling with the new.

Love had to, at some point, be involved in each finger movement,

Who am I to erase her attempts at educated prose?

I try my best to save letters.

Who am I to tell “and”, “however”, or “as” that they are no longer needed here?

Won’t they find me inhospitable?

Perhaps if I am too bold in deletion, they will avoid coming back for tea and biscuits,

perhaps,

Or, they shall find my brazenness in editing to be offensive, thus never allowing me their use again.

I try my best to save letters,

But I can no longer pretend my electronic notebooks are flush gardens needing no more than some deadheading and pruning.