for e.e. cummings

there are things i want to say to you. i feel like a fangirl; like rounded block letters on lined paper and i's dotted with hearts. i 

write in lowercase just like you do. it's an odd feeling reading words like yours, dear, the font looks like how my thoughts are printed in my head. thick black

1950s serif and the a just slightly smudged. i wonder if you still need ink up there; maybe now you write with a flower stem and a pot of honey. poetry

after you're dead must be strange, now that you've access to knowledge of everything. or maybe they keep the poets in a separate room,

a little empty mahogany office with a wastebasket of broken pencils. it's bolted from the outside but the poets don't know. they think

they are the only ones that made it to heaven. it goes straight to their heads, the poetry, like they're peacocks. when i die i'll meet you there, i suppose,

and ask you how you've been.