In the middle of a worn bag, in the middle of a worn bin in the middle of a worn charity store in the middle of a worn town, there was a letter.

The letter D in fact.

For dear.

The bag was dark green, and worn by time. My old human, worn by time also, found our letter in the intention of checking the lining for holes.

Just to find a brave confession,

Unread by my lovers eyes.

Until now.

The eyes of the old lover spill over and smile.

I left this note for you my love, my rain puddle, my feather.

I’m sorry it finds you worn.

Ah, if only I could have walked through time,

Worn-

with you.

Alas.

I will never age.