A small, white envelope

I have a small, white envelope.

On my bed it lies, unmoving.

The edges frayed.

Yellow and blue and grey.

And pale, like moth eaten skin.

My small, white envelope is,

Bedecked in ancient addresses,

Necklaced in landline numbers,

Blanketed in sketches of faces,

Now unfamiliar.

You can feel,

The coarseness of sawdust,

The frailty of ash,

The softness of mildew,

The dampness of spilt coffee,

On its infirm paper body.

You see,

This small, white envelope,

Is no longer white,

And it is crumpled like my skin,

And it smells of time,

And the oil stains of an unfortunate lunch.

                                                                        *

I had a small, white envelope.

Now I lift its carcass.

A decrepit cenotaph.

Dedicated to me.

To time.

To the letter I never wrote to you.