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The parcel was wrapped in exquisite dried pulp,
A thousand scraps of texts with their arms around each other
Obscured, fighting for air and space.
A ribbon detached from a 1950’s typewriter
Was neatly tied into a sloppy, floppy bow.
Her fingers became muddied with ink
As purchase was gained on the knot.
Stiffly, the sides were smoothed down
With small careful strokes.
In the middle lay a word made from rusting
Typewriter keys,
Held in place by copper wire and old string
Threaded carefully through.
She looked around,
The walls were full of nouns,
Similes bulged in her pockets,
Even the carpet was littered with
Adjectives.
But this was a special word.
One created just for her that no one
Had ever seen in the history
Of from here to there and back again.
And he’d created it just for her eyes to see,
Her hands to feel,
Her ears to hear.
She nibbled the edge of the word thoughtfully,
And was the happiest,
Inkiest
Girl, in the whole wide world.

 

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