Late Letter

Yellowed edges crack beneath my thumb,

folded breath trapped in brittle paper.

The ink has bled through time,

smudged apologies arriving

when silence had already spoken.

I unfold the past, words trembling,

a voice I wanted to hear months ago,

holding something I no longer know

how to hold.

Dust settles over meaning

like the room after dusk,

and this letter, faded, folds itself

back into the quiet,

closing doors

I’m too slow to open.

Too late,

too late.