The Pressed Flower

In the crease of an old envelope, a pressed flower—the paper gone brittle as skin. I don't remember which garden.

Your handwriting, faded to ghost-ink, still holds the slope of your wrist, the hesitation before you signed my name like a question.

Years scatter like dust when you open what you thought was lost forever— not the object, but the ache of wanting, the way light bends through a window you had forgotten existed.