Michelangelo and the Pen

Writing notes on actual paper,
the kind that rubs the palms
of the hands, with a pen
filled to the brim with smooth
running ink, is like etching
thoughts onto the mind
like God's fingers on stone.
Minus all the constant scratches
and cross-outs, a bizarre map
pointing to a deliberately
              innocuous key
to the most inane treasure.
            Every measured mark
       on parchment
     is a covenant forming
between now and then:
    a covenant to remember
what was left preserved
for the hands to trace
and the eyes to meet.
     So I'm in a wee bit
of an impasse:
once I've finished writing
this letter meant for you,
           do I send it through
   or keep it for personal use,
my own memento
                             to a decision
marking my heart
                                           as open vacancy?
Fear is an understatement
weaved into the subtext
and I'm doing my best
    trying to decide between
letting you know
                   my heart's open
                                           for occupancy
                             or hiding this reality
                                     within
the comfortable confines
of a smallish shoebox.
Perhaps the potential solution
can be found if I continue
to flounder in my feelings
         by way of writing
             yet another letter.
Let me get back to you
once I've found my answer.
~~~~~

It's been awhile! Finished this yesterday, April 24th. Hope you enjoy it.

Cheers