⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm and suicide ⚠
____________________
­The envelope
(delivered just this morning)
splits in his attempt
to tear away its wax seal
where her very breath still wanders.

Inside,
he finds a razor blade--
upon being removed
from its paper hostel,
it glints prismatically
in the Autumn sun--
and a neatly-pressed letter
accompanied by an overwhelming
medley of scents--
parchment;
mint lip balm;
*****;
it still smelled like her.

With butterflies rising like bile
up his throat,
he unfolds the letter,
reading over her
spidery handwriting
several times before
her words fully percolate:

"Do not return to sender--
she's already dead."