up in smoke and gone

Her mailbox was always empty. Hers was a sad mailbox, for it never tasted the crisp white envelope of a freshly sent letter. Sad; and bored, for it never once saw the vibrant colors of postcards from distant or neighboring places. All she wanted was a piece of paper with a few words written on it. Something she could see and feel and keep and remind her that she's still here, and someone noticed. But it never came, anyway.


picture from here