In a moment of impulsive fright,
he picked up the letter and tore it apart,
into pieces, little tiny pieces,
and than he smiled for a second,
but not for too long,

The letter was unread, although he suspected
what might be in it,
but still unread and riddled with possibilities,
so even if he thought he knew,
he did not really know, unread,
damn my impulse, he thought,
what was in it?

Little did he know, the letter,
was not from his lost love,
but was from his future self,
telling him to tear it up – unread,
knowing that he will tear it up anyway,
without reading it, and that he will
live with that regret of the haunting unread letter,
a tiny bit of self torture,
with time, it all becomes humorous.

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