A Poem That I Wrote One Weekend, Don’t Remember Which

I kept a jar of read receipts – they were evidence that you received all my emails, indisputable proof that the information had been sent direct to your brain, subject only to the constraints of fallible technology and the loopholes of a  messy reality in which it is conceivable that you may have opened the email but not actually read it, and the evidence only valid until such time as I lost the jar or accidentally knocked it over, or maybe until the read receipts begin to decompose, the very code that wrote them into being succumbing to time, becoming obsolete and then extinct, at which point my collection will mean nothing, nothing at all.


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