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Description
When you were dying, I wrote you a letter.
You died before I could give it to you, so I kept it in my purse
For when you got back.

I carried those heavy words around for a year, always
Too afraid to let go of them.
Because recycling them or burning or burying them would mean
You were gone, and you would never get your letter.

And finally I suppose the letter became too heavy to carry,
So I retired the purse to some corner of my room.
It’s still here, and sometimes
I forget about it, and sometimes
The weight of it makes the floorboards crack.

I know I should dive into that purse,
Past the coupons and unfinished punch cards,
(buy five frozen yogurts, get one free)
I know I should take out the rotting paper,
Bury it, let the weight of it sink into the ground.

But I know that some envelopes
Are better left sealed.
And I know that some part of me
Still clings to that letter unsent.

old ink, crumpled pages, trembling hands.

Description
When you were dying, I wrote you a letter.
You died before I could give it to you, so I kept it in my purse
For when you got back.

I carried those heavy words around for a year, always
Too afraid to let go of them.
Because recycling them or burning or burying them would mean
You were gone, and you would never get your letter.

And finally I suppose the letter became too heavy to carry,
So I retired the purse to some corner of my room.
It’s still here, and sometimes
I forget about it, and sometimes
The weight of it makes the floorboards crack.

I know I should dive into that purse,
Past the coupons and unfinished punch cards,
(buy five frozen yogurts, get one free)
I know I should take out the rotting paper,
Bury it, let the weight of it sink into the ground.

But I know that some envelopes
Are better left sealed.
And I know that some part of me
Still clings to that letter unsent.

old ink, crumpled pages, trembling hands.