By Melissa Purswell
There’s a letter in the console of my car
buried beneath carbon copied evidence
of oil changes, brake pads, a new muffler.
I’ll see it every so often under paper napkins
and remember the idea I had to write you.
I don’t recall the feeling of that urge,
or the letting go of it
now that the corners of the envelope
are bent and your address is beginning to fade,
bleeding into the white space
that surrounds your name.
I look at it lying in wait
like a pistol or a lead pipe
and wonder if I will ever let it go—