One Hundred and Thirty Seven

You wrote me a letter.
And I held onto it. Held onto it like a child holding a bird, like it would fly away with the wind if I wasn't too careful, like all of this is just a dream, because that's never been too much of a stretch for me. I clung to it, and for a moment felt the world spin round my clasp on this piece of paper. This moment, this silly moment in a dirty downtown metro when I used to live in Montreal, I felt the world spin around me and a letter and a feeling I had inside. I didn't know what it was but I knew I was so lucky to have it, and so terrfied it was leaving, fading even as I closed more fingers across the seam, holding this memory in space.
No, I remember thinking to myself as the metro approached,
No, you can't lose anything you don't let go of.