Waterlogged

The landlord's coming Tuesday.

I have to clear beneath the bed.

Years of things tucked away—

boxes, dust, and dread.

There it is. The shoebox.

Elastic band around it, yellow and frayed.

I knew what was inside. The paradox:

I'd hidden it. I'd forgotten I'd made

this choice. To keep the letters.

His words. My words back.

Seven years old. The elastic

is brittle. About to crack.

The flood came through the baseboard.

Water warped the box.

The ink has bled. I can't afford

to read what was locked.

His handwriting dissolves to blue.

The envelopes glued with moisture.

I don't open them. I just move through

the apartment, taking out the closure.

I throw it all away.

The elastic snaps. The letters fall.

Tuesday he'll inspect. He'll say

the place is clear. That's all.