The words feel rough on the paper like they’re cutting me open with the edges of their letters, and
I blink to remind myself that I’m still functioning, that my eyes have not been condemned to this open pain filled gaze, and
I think about how her pen strokes look like art on the parchment, and
the way the envelope tore down the middle when I opened it seems almost catastrophically significant – like I should’ve seen it coming, and
I wonder if maybe it’s a good thing that no one writes letters anymore – because when they do it feels like they took their time with breaking your heart.