I've written you a letter and I'll send it soon.
It's two pages, twice folded and slipped
into an off-white envelope
where I've licked the back flap
and pressed it down firmly.

Your location is scribbled on the front,
centered almost perfectly
and my address sits top left
just in case your house is no longer there
and the postman decides to return to sender.

However, the corners are beginning to fray
and a small coffee stain
curves around one side,
looping over the place
where a stamp should be.

Your name is starting to fade
and I'm not sure if the 6 in your address
is a 6 at all. So maybe the postman
will just lose it in a sea of forgotten paper
and one day you’ll swim over to it.

I would like you to read the letter I've written,
but the idea behind a message in a bottle
only works if you toss the **** thing overboard.
And the only time I ever told you I loved you
is collecting dust inside my desk.