Death of the Letter

This is probably the end of
love letters; the art
of penning 
pages upon pages
of handwritten 
scrawl, sent from 
manors
or war zones
to a far away love,
or left on pillows
from the lover
in the next room over
is dying away,
for the newest
open hearts
would rather
the instant 
gratification
of one-hundred fourty characters
or a box of calibri text
than the slow satisfaction
and occasional tear stain
that comes
from the ink and the paper