Letters

The envelope brushes my mouth
as I inhale the scent,
carefully combing, analyzing, absorbing.

The stamp still carries the warm
aroma of your tongue,
moist and riveting, a reminder of your sweet breath;
Tangy yet bitter, sweet but cunning.
You used the pen from the set
your mother bought for you twelve years ago,
The one pen pen tucked way in the back
if I recall correctly.
Traces of your perfume, number 45
to be exact, Still linger in the ink;
Scribbled in someone elses' address (as it always is)
in neat handwriting.

I place the envelope in the box
of ten thousand more.