The Address Remains

Your name written in blue ink—the only thing that travels through weather, through postal codes where no one remembers which city held us.

The envelope arrives watermarked, creased at the fold where a thousand other hands pressed their indifference. Your words inside still warm, still legible, still arriving late.

Some threshold we can't name keeps us on opposite sides of envelopes— yet the address persists. Ink that won't fade. A street corner that exists only because your hand wrote it down.

I am learning the grammar of waiting: how distance becomes a room with no doors, how the smallest mark—a comma, a postage stamp— says *here, you mattered, you reached across*.