Six Months Ago

Behind the photo frame,

wedged tight against the wall,

a thick envelope, curled at the edge, stood tall.

The postmark hit me first, a date so stark,

revealing the truth, hidden in the dark.

Six months. A half-year lost, gone by,

before these words ever met my eye.

The stationery, cream, a familiar hand,

a message from a distant, shifting land.

Each sentence now a twist, a knife,

a path not taken, a different life.

'I'm leaving,' it began, or 'I'm sorry, my dear,'

but the weight of it now, was the weight of a tear

that never fell then, but floods me instead.

The 'what if' ringing, inside my head.