In the book, tucked so to hold a page, a postcard bought written never sent to anyone, least of all the person the words meant to address.
In the book, tucked so to hold a page, a postcard bought written never sent to anyone, least of all the person the words meant to address.
Your voicemail greeting lied. You were home. You really weren’t sorry to miss my call. You wouldn’t be returning. I left my message anyway.