POETRY
127
THE LETTER Karla Gabriela Abreu
It sits there. On the coffee table, the paper a little yellowed, little warped from dried-up tear stains, a little frayed from shaking fingers tracing every word, every night. I stare at it from the couch. From the left corner of the couch, yours was always the right side. The blue, battered blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders– the same one you would always steal during movie nights, curl up in, dive in and shut out the world in. I kept the blanket. It sits there. The edge of it trapped between the table and that hideous purple polka-dotted mug you loved, the one I could never put in the dishwasher so it wouldn’t break, the one I couldn’t touch, the one that had to be exhibited on the kitchen counter, a permanent reminder of you. I kept the mug.
