I used to have
no choice,
no way to reach you.
I would write letters
to your ghost,
I could not send.
I still write letters,
angst filled passages,
to someone
who will never
read them.
I remember the days
when I’d write down
my mind,
with ink and paper,
and mail you
my questions,
my ideas,
my heart.
I kept your address
in my wallet
so that I might never forget
the place in space
that you inhabited,
as if keeping
that scrawled
and useless scrap
might keep you real,
I never imagined
a time when that location
would become obsolete,
as pointless as the paper
it was written on.
that paper is back,
taunting my words,
urging them
to make their
presence known,
to resurrect
our tradition.
What would you do
if I sent them to you…again?

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