She’s gone he said Just like that

She’s gone, he said. Just like that.

And the air went thin,

a membrane stretched too far.

I remembered then, a small argument,

something about a borrowed book,

a misunderstanding, sharp and quick.

And I thought of a letter, not written,

or maybe written, but lost,

tucked away in some forgotten box,

its edges crisp, its crease still sharp.

Words carefully chosen, or maybe

just spilled out, hot and fast.

It would have cleared the air, perhaps.

Or made it worse. Who knows.

But in my head, it sits there,

unopened, a white square

of possibility, or apology,

that never got to land.

Now it's just the silence,

and the ghost of ink, unread.

A permanent postmark,

dated after the fact.

And the heavy paper, still holding

the shape of a question mark.