i wrote myself into an envelope 
and left it on your doorstep; 
my corners neat, my words honest, 
my whole heart sealed inside. 
you picked me up gently, 
thumb brushing the paper 
like you were afraid 
you might tear something important. 
you carried me everywhere; 
tucked into your backpack, 
held between your fingers, 
kept close, but never opened. 
i felt the warmth of your hands, 
the rise and fall of your breath, 
the way you checked 
that i was still there. 
you loved me enough to keep me, 
but not enough to read me. 
and i learned 
that being held is not the same 
as being loved. 
still, i wait in your pocket, 
creasing at the edges, 
hoping one day 
you'll be ready 
to unfold me. 
until then, 
i remain the letter, 
and you, 
the almost-reader 
trying not to hurt me 
with your hesitation.