I’ve wrote countless letters. Seemingly meaningless letters to you. Ones counting the days. Ones counting the hours. Ones counting minutes. Ones counting the ways. Yet, they never come to you. They’ve never seen your face. They’ve never heard your voice. They’re left to wonder who and exactly what are they in ode to. A hiding place where these letters go to die. To my surprise, one made it through recovery. One that never laid away with the others wallowing in their collective silence and withering under the darkness of longing. Instead, it lay steadily creased between a receipt from god knows where and a less than adult like representation of your like for me that read “I ❤ U TeDrA”. Once removed, quickly aware of how folded it was. Through worn paper and fading ink lay a message to you I was no longer familiar with. A message that enticed me to see how deep in that cavern I was left. Handled as if it would crumble beneath my gaze and touch immediately after it had served it’s purpose. Eyes gliding over sullen words that tarnished the paper with their vulnerability. So vulnerable and open, but so much time being closed and unheard. To me, the perfect setting for deep impressions to be left. I was coerced to feel what the letter felt. To remember what the curvature of the pen knew. In hopes the letter would make it to you, but all the while knowing what lie at the end of the road. Perfectly folded back into its mold. Carefully placed where it would continue to acquaint itself. Safe from the shared sorrows of letters before, yet allowed only the comfort in knowing the note you wrote would share the misery. A letter to you, but not the last. Not the final seemingly meaningless letter to you. All computing the ways, minutes, hours, and days. Still countless letters never meant for you.