Messages

With a mere blink then she’d send off
Those missives sans destinations, no knowing
Who might receive them, who’d read them.
Though she never wrote a return address,
Eagerly she’d wait, hoping for a reply.

She would write messages with her eyes
Dipping her glances into the ink of her kohl.
I sat pondering over a Neruda verse, sitting at the
Bookstore corner wishing I knew Spanish, while
Absently overhearing two teens discuss Austen and
“You’ve Got Mail”; as if on a fated prophetic cue
I felt a knock on my heart and looked up in reply.