Letter

I have not yet opened the letter
you gave me.

It sits on my desk beside the keyboard
I am typing a letter to you upon.

I know what you will say, what
you have said already, what

you want me to know, but
there are many pages there, and

before I read your words, before
I am influenced by your lines

I must sit and type this to you,
ma cherie amour.

I lift the pages you have sent me,
4 small pieces of paper folded  in 3.

A light, but felt weight in lifting.
A word I catch in the middle of a paragraph:

"Forever"

Another:

"Never"

And the phrase:

"What did you imagine we'd become?"

You see, I need not read more. I need
only finish my letter to you, fold it in three,

place the single page in an evelope,

and toss it into the fire place,

let the flames lick the seal,

burn through each word,

and turn to cool ash your pages

and mine.