A Letter

Crinkled old paper,
Time turned brown and worn,
So soft against my fingers,
Edges ragged and torn.

Folded neat and crisp,
Sealed with blood red wax,
I turn the letter over,
Curiosity filling my acts.

Who wrote this letter?
What words they say?
Who was it written for?
Why is it left unread, fading away?

Maybe it was written of love,
Perhaps it was written from hate,
It might hold only sadness,
What if it got sent too late?

What if it never got sent at all?
Written and then forgot?
Or kept hidden safely,
Hoping flighty courage would be caught.

Curiosity buzzes around my mind,
Answers left unknown,
For these words never arrived,
Never met their intended home.

And now they're sitting in my hand,
And still they are unread,
I gaze at the letter before me,
Questions filling my head.