We used to write letters, the kind with handwritten addresses and licked stamps. The curving news, pen to paper, the inked mistakes corrected and permanent. The way we wrote love as a salutation or an ending, its arrival and rhythmic unwrapping put time in its place. Tangible re-readings of views, the stories unfold. In our hands, we wrote cursive possibilities in the long hand of time, but checked the mailbox anyway. We still check the box each day, same letters, same font.
sharing a mirror
with a stranger