Though Its Advance May Be Slowed

I'll be right back. Thanks. You're welcome.
The messages keep arriving
From the messenger who has left

The long, lingering suspicion
There were only messages there
Ever, or that messengers live

Alone, receiving and sending
Letters that will evaporate
Like disappearing lemon ink

But without the capacity
To be re-read by anyone
Again, there being nobody

Ever, except the messengers,
Each observing the others
Vanish into messagelessness.