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it's crazy, i keep telling myself, and stupid.
i can't pay the shipping insurance;
i know you wouldn't sign for it;

and anyway, you don't want my heart,
so gelatinous and full of leaves - and far -
but still i imagine you holding that package,

first to your nose, then against your ear:
the moist green smell of a playground 
and a swishing sound, like a washing machine.

we could draw this out, you know -
pushing letters back and forth
for years, exchanging bits of hair
and good luck charms

i could subsist on that for some time,
from you. like heloise, i'd settle:
for a consolation, an endearment,
a halfhearted invitation.

or i could send you this brave letter
with its cache of dangerous words, 
and bloody fingerprints for stamps.