I found an envelope today.
It was pretty bent out of shape.
The stamps collected on top of one another,
Adding a raised texture to the paper’s surface.
The penciled-in cursive has faded over the years,
And there are small tears bordering the edges.
Unopened, its surface has aged incredibly
But the words sealed inside are still fresh.
Someone wrote that letter with intention…
That intention, I may never know—
But someone should have.
The words that were sprawled on that piece of paper
Emotion that will never reach the receiving end.
I should’ve opened it.
It makes me wonder what it could’ve been.
A love letter, a friend reaching out, penpals globally distanced,
While I may never know, just like the addressed won’t either,
I think it’s nice to dream up a story.