Improv/Imitation 1, Week 11

"It was mid-afternoon, the blinds were open."
My cell phone blinked a new message; I opened
it to find an I love you, baby from whats-his-name
and wondered the difficulty of conducting a real
love letter--in our age of emails and texts
and fingers that type 100-words-per-minute on my
skin despite my pounding fists insisting written word.

I do not click Reply as though purposely defiant
of this new-fangled tradition; is that what my grandfather
would call it? That's what I would call it, the text.
Text once meant words on a page, while I wrote in pen
or pencil in class and learned to type at such a young
age, the term of text remained the same no matter who
you were writing a love letter to. Instead, we find
ourselves locked inside an eternal love text.