Return to Sender

I have mastered the art of seducing a pin tumbler. Excuses tumble off
of the pages as pages divorce the binding. My ears are ringing.
I sleep to the glow of a brightly lit couples only
skate-a-way sign propped cleverly against my
window. My mail comes in stacks wrapped in rubber bands
with no return address. When I say wrapped I mean encased.
I mean more rubber than paper. I mean that karma could sit on it.
Every letter reads the same: "Doesn't it feel great to be alive?"
Each message differs in type. Its strange. I swear I can smell
perfume spritzed on each letter. Something exotic.
I wish I knew the sender.
I want to give you an answer.