The Stamp is Still Valid

I was looking for the scissors to cut a loose thread

when I found the envelope instead.

It’s been at the bottom of the drawer for a year,

hiding under tax forms and things I hold dear.

The diner on 5th is boarding up its glass,

where we used to sit and watch the buses pass.

I read it in the paper while drinking my tea,

and the guilt came back like a wave over me.

I licked the flap, but the glue has gone dry,

a bitter, chalky taste I can’t quite justify.

The apology is written in ink that’s turned blue,

but there’s no longer a door to send it through.