a mahogany desk houses the letter you sent
a year ago, sleeping under a blanket of dust;
i couldn’t muster the strength to open it then
and have been putting it off. as excited as i
was to receive correspondence as you, that
fact alone was enough to satiate the hunger
of all the questions i wanted to ask you. you’re
still here. you're alive. i wonder if you still bleed
poetry freely at coffeehouses. i wonder if you’ve
finally made it – i scour through all the new
releases at the bookstore to see if i would
recognize your name. i wonder if you’re still
exuberant everywhere you go. i can readily
admit that i'm not a very good friend, you
can place the blame solely on me.
i reach for the letter-opener and take to the
envelope with the hands of a surgeon, and
excise the letter carefully. it smells faintly of
old books.
i put the letter back down –
one day, i'll read it in full
but for now, i'm content.
