On A Letter

Tucked in some back pages I find
a note from an old friend.
I was probably in love with her once. I'm a bad one.
It reads, through smeared ink,
"...so glad to have gotten to know you..."
and
"...are strong..."
and
"...things will get..."
and the ink smears again.
I remember her vividly, now,
small and delicate and beautiful and
when she was scared
she would stand so close to me.
But where has the effort gone
that night I reolved to write to her?
I think I wrote "dear" and maybe her
name probably followed by a comma, or colon.
I can be a bad one like that.
Still,
I wonder how she is,
and if I'll ever be so blessed as
to see her again.