Dead Mail

The junk drawer is jammed on a plastic pen

so I pull until the wood starts to creak.

I find the envelope I tucked away then,

when I was too angry or tired to speak.

The stationary has a faint, floral scent

buried under the smell of old keys.

I read the sharp words and the way they were meant

to bring a tall person down to their knees.

But the stamp is curling, the glue has gone dry,

and the name on the front is a ghost in the hall.

It’s a message that didn't have wings to fly,

just a heavy, white square against the back wall.