Letters

A closed envelope
sits in my mailbox.
Yesterday, early morning,
when I was still warm, sleeping

between my quilt and bed sheet,
a postman had come,
his creaky bicycle, rattling
on the winding,

leading to my house.
He dropped it,
in my mailbox.
Who is it?

Who has written to me?
Whose fragrance does the closed envelope carry?
Whose handwriting adorns the letter?
Whose hands have touched this letter?

Which town is escaped in it?
Who has written to me?
The answers sit in my mailbox.
My curiosity is peeked.

I undo the glued envelope.
The letter doesn't bear the sender's address.
The letter has only one line.
I read it and re read it.

I can't understand,
what it says.
It says
"I couldn't simplify myself".