from the NHS and I want nothing more
than to open it. She is at work, and I know
she wouldn’t mind. It’s sitting on the living
room table and I try to peek inside, without
breaking the seal of the envelope. I know
I should leave it, but I want to know what this
letter says. I decide that I need to fill up time
for the next few hours until my wife gets home
and opens the letter herself. She is not me;
the letter is not mine. I am me and she is her.
I know that. Through the last several years
I have come to know that. We each get separate
letters. I write poems whilst she gets on
with her day. The letter is still on the table
and I must not touch it.
