The Smudged Address

The filing cabinet groaned,

a metal throat clearing.

Just clearing junk out,

the usual Tuesday.

Then the folder, 'Misc.'

sticky tabs I'd forgotten,

and there, folded sharp.

A letter.

Addressed to you,

stamped and sealed.

But the postmark never happened.

My thumb smudged the ink

right where your name was,

a purple bruise blooming

on the white page.

I can't remember

what I was so afraid to say.

Or maybe I remember too well.