A Letter Too Late

It lingered beneath piles of bills and debris,

a crumpled reminder that time waits for none.

My fingers traced faded ink, soaked through with sighs,

as an old friend asked, did you ever read, hon?

Words, like whispers, from a life long gone,

wrapped in pages where memories bled,

a grandfather’s voice, now a ghost in the dawn,

that echoed of love but left me misled.

Too late for the lessons, the warmth of his hand,

these lines carry stories of wishes unmet.

The ink soaks the paper, like tears on dry land,

and I’m left with a letter I cannot forget.