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.
The more envelopes I lick the more I believe that this is the taste of friendship. The mail carrier knows my name. You know my written hand.