you drafted it many times — in the train, at the long traffic light, once in full at three in the afternoon while the kettle reached its small thunder. each draft was better than the last. each evaporated.

by the time the paper would have helped, the paper would no longer have helped. it became a different sort of letter — one that exists only in the negative, like the space a tooth leaves. the absence has its shape, and you sometimes still address it.

do not be too sorry. some letters are most themselves unwritten; they say a thing the writing would have softened.