Letter I Keep Rewriting

I wrote your name at the top. I crossed it out. I wrote it again near the margin, smaller — where it costs less of the page. The pen pressed through to the page beneath — a groove that holds the shape of a word but not the word. The paper has a crease where I folded it and unfolded it. The crease stays. Everything else is gone. Dear — I have been meaning to tell you that I still think about the way you left the... I started on the back. The back was clean for four words. The first thing I crossed out was a city. The second, a month. The third is a word I cross out in every draft — seven times, and every time the next draft puts it back. Dear — I have been meaning to tell you that I still... Seven drafts beside the ink. Each one shorter than the last. The first ran two pages. I wrote down everything. The second, I cut everything to what mattered. The third, what mattered to what was fair. The fourth, fair to true. The fifth, true to what I could bear to send. The sixth is the crease. The seventh is this. Dear — I... The pen is on the table. The page is...