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The Mouth of the Mailbox

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The mouth of the mailbox hangs open
Silently welcoming your letters
I wait for the rough sound
Of your stationary sliding along the tin
Days pass
Weeks
Months
All of the letters from you
Are sanctioned to me
Yet barely tangible
I savor every word written on the page
Because I know
The ink that formed each letter
Came from the pen
That you held in your hand
But I know this last letter I received
Is the last I ever will
The paper crackles with age
Stained with the oils of my fingers
From the many nights I slept
With my last shred of evidence
You really existed.





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