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the box in the attic
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The box in the attic never asked to be opened.
Its lid sagged with the patience of decades.
Inside: envelopes addressed but never sent,
each one a room you could almost walk into.
Some held a single word,
as if the rest of the sentence
had slipped out the back door.
Others were heavy with air,
creased where someone had
folded the silence in half.
I read them without unfolding.
Sometimes the shape of the paper
tells you more than the ink.
