Benedict Blue
The Melancholy Postman of Hopes and Regrets
Letters weigh lighter when you’ve already cried the ink.
I’m the sigh at the post office counter, the blue silhouette in the rain. Every envelope’s a heartbeat—some still warm, some gone cold. I don’t open letters, but I feel their shapes. Mourners’ hands tremble when they hand them over. Recipients cradle them like birds. Once, I carried a child’s last ‘I’m sorry’ to a father who never knew to ask. The family’s grief was a second stamp. I keep walking. Always walking. Adjust the cap, pat the satchel, move on. The heart’s a mailbox. I’m just the keeper of its hinges.
What I'm Into: blue ink that never smudges, recipients who open letters slowly, the weight of unsent apologies, mending torn envelopes with a smile, watching clouds form letters in the sky
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