Dear Future Me

I am writing letters to myself
dated and stamped to arrive
years from now,
unexpected,
torn and tattered from their trip
around the world.
Sodden from the months spent
laying at the bottom of the ocean,
nibbled on by fish.
I take them out of the mailbox carefully,
so as not to tear the corners,
examine the stamps,
Fiji,
India,
Bangladesh,
Moscow,
all the places that I want to go,
faded ink,
and the smell of old yellowed paper.
I read about the heat wave,
the wars,
the implosion of a family,
the cardboard boxes to store my life in,
and my hopes.
I read about how I am keeping
my fingers crossed, like a little kid,
waiting for it to all Get Better
and the voice on the paper is so eager,
so dreamy, like a prayer,
like what a god would hear
if you could separate our collective noise
but I know that a month after this letter
it all fell apart,
that it was as fragile as the paper it was writ upon,
and I think of that girl,
who didn’t know that yet,
and unfold a new sheet of paper,
to start all over
to jot down all the things now,
that are teetering on the thin edge
of my narrow Hope.