I steamed his letter open, the one
that came in today’s post, the one
that smelled of jasmine and honey,
the one I did not send.

The flap of the envelope
curled into a snarl, baiting me
to read, choking me with
my own intent.

The curly words made it hard
to read every one, so I read
between the lines and saw
the plot grow warmer there.

I saw amid the steam soaked
letters a flame igniting, one
which I could not put out, one
whose embers would never die.

I steamed his letter open, the one
that would make him follow,
make me obsolete, make me
dissolve in the mist.

© 2013 Diane M. Laboda

The Big Windows Review 5 (Fall 2013)