On the list of the missing

I think sometimes

I might make

I would include letters

stories published for a single reader

received and read then read again

savoured or shredded

I would conjure a scattered mix

of correspondence

inhale the fragrance of yesterday

reach deep into the texture

give over to the cut and colour of paper

the content and style of written word

unique to each originator

their intent a desire to communicate

to gift their thoughts

and uninhibited emotion

to entrust to me their immediacy

stories in the moment

To touch remembrance

review

regard

how time would watch

without a murmur

light of pale blue from my lamp

my face in half shadow

reading each line

and between

pausing

my gaze overlooking

night’s whispers

reach for my pen—not just any pen

my silver one full of story—

alive again

ready my response

for your eyes only

writing hours until both wrists ached

End with enough

thick with folds of pages almost

too much for an envelope to hold

sealed/stamped/sent

whatever story launched unedited

no regrets or takebacks

embellishments imperfections

vulnerabilities real news

Everything unhurried

the impatience beginning the day after

wondering how long it might be

or even if

a new letter might come

by return🪶