After the letter was sealed, after the stamp was licked and stuck to the corner like a tiny prayer, I remembered the thing I left out— not the date, not the address, but the softest part.
PPS: Do you remember the way light fell through the blinds that Sunday? Like confession through teeth. Like forgiveness through a crack in the door. pps amour
PPS Amour— not a cry, not a claw-back, just a footnote left bleeding in the margin: I was here. I loved you. I still check the mailbox for someone who no longer writes back. After the letter was sealed, after the stamp
PPS: I lied when I said I didn't mind the silence. I collected every empty second you gave me and pressed them like dried flowers between the pages of a book I'll never finish. Like forgiveness through a crack in the door
No envelope this time. Just this. Just the echo.
PPS: This morning I peeled an orange for myself and thought of the way you used to save me the last slice. Sweet. Imperfect. Wet with the juice of something we couldn't name.
Postscript to a love I forgot to sign