Mail-Order Forgiveness

The envelope arrives with no return address.
He knew I wouldn't open it if it bore his name.

Inside, his ragged handwriting asks
for understanding.
Explains the narrowness of choices,
how the long road bent him
until temptation justified his fall.

Please don't hate me.

He writes about finding God.
About forgiveness.
About a clean slate.

But it's not the crime that still burns.
It's the aftermath.
The way my body still shakes
in memorized rooms
with no exits,
the half-life of a moment
that never finished happening.

I do not burn the letter.
I do not tear it up.
I place it back in its envelope
like a specimen slide.

I seal it shut,
put it in a drawer.
Then sit in the dark,
and feel nothing.

Forgiveness is not mine to counterfeit.