The smell of fresh ink and regret

My grandmother sold her typewriter

and I wonder where it's gone

And if it's being written on.

The letters on the keys had begun to fade,

But they missed the firm hand of my grandmother,

And maybe the lovely words that she pressed into the page.

And the keyboard on the computer doesn't click the same way,

The blinking cursor on the page impatiently urging you on,

While the typewriter calmly held your hand until you were ready to speak.

Writing  shouldn't be so easy,

You should feel the impact of each letter as you type it.

It should be as messy as the XXX placed over words,

Hastily crossed out,

Or the crumbled page in the corner with fresh ink.

Mistakes can't be erased,

Mistakes should make you start over.

But sometimes mistakes are the friends that have fallen away, the ones you know so well, but simply acknowledge with a hesitant wave of your fingers on the street.

Fingers shoved quickly back into pockets before they reach out for what they know, what they had.

And sometimes a touch of those fingers say more than all the words in a dictionary could.

If my grandmother had her typewriter,

I'd write a letter to you.

My mistakes would be spread across the page,

But you wouldn't mind because you loved me despite of them.

And I loved you despite you being one.

If my grandmother had her typewriter,
I would write--

Where oh where have you and your words gone? I miss you. I'm running out of words, ink. Please don't strike me from your heart the page. 

But letters get lost somewhere between our hearts and our fingers, and usually end up crumpled on the floor.

Return to sender.

The sender never has anything new to say.