Pieces

You have pieces of me.
Objects that I have held, touched. Run my fingers over.
I imagine them--postcards and letters, envelopes and paperclips:
do they look different in your hands than they did in mine?

Are they worn now, edges smoothed, corners bent, your fingers rubbing and folding and creasing as your mind raced?

Or are the pages pristine, pressed carefully between your techno-gadgets, for fear you might destroy the fragile fibers, and by some symbolic voo-doo, all that they delivered?

You are tactile--the only thing you care not for in your hands, a pen.
Your words scrawled: a mere practicality.
My words delivered: an object for your hands alone. An amulet.

Loved inkless or preserved priceless?