Three Years

The envelope came today.

Three years late.

The postage was old, the address crossed out

with a forwarding label that tried to catch up with me.

Her handwriting on the front.

She's still reaching, even though

she stopped trying so long ago.

I should throw it away unopened.

I should have thrown it away three years ago

when it was sent.

But I open it because my hands are shaking

and my hands only shake for things that matter.

The date is from when she was still hoping.

The words are from when she still thought

I might come back.

Three years and the hope is still fresh somehow,

still intact,

still believing in the person I used to be.

I read it.

I shouldn't have.

It says things I was supposed to hear then,

not now,

not when everything is different,

not when I'm different.

There's nothing I can do with this.

I can't answer it.

I can't explain where I've been.

I can't even explain to myself

why I'm standing here in the kitchen

with a letter that's already too old

and too late

and too full of a person

I decided to stop being.

I fold it back into the envelope.

The yellow edges catch the light.

I don't know what to do with it,

so I just hold it.