image from Hope at pinterest.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The mailbox exhales December~ a paper breath of pine and cinnamon. Each envelope, a door left ajar: inside, the hush of inked sincerity, fingers tracing the embossed edges of someone’s I thought of you. No pixels, no ping~ just the slow theology of glue and stamp, the quiet arithmetic of distance measured in cardstock. I lay them on the table like relics: Here is proof~ we still reach without touching.
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