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 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 amour
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. PPS Amour— not a cry, not a claw-back,
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. After the letter was sealed, after the stamp