Return to Sender

It was tucked behind the bill for the gas,

watching three whole winters slowly pass.

I peeled it back and found a dusty head,

a moth that lived there until it was dead.

The opener slipped and caught on the page,

tearing through a 'sorry' made for another age.

The person you’re writing to isn’t in this chair,

she’s not the one who used to do her hair.