Days Like Blue Letters

Some days arrive without knocking—

Soft, weightless,

Like an old blue letter tucked inside a book

You almost forgot you owned.

The paper is thin, fragile at the corners,

Much like my thoughts—folded, unopened for years.

There’s no sender’s name,

No address.

Just ink smudges and a faint scent of rain-soaked nostalgia.

The mornings come slowly now.

Not in bursts of light,

But in cautious steps, like someone unsure if they’re welcome.

Sunlight leaks through dusty curtains,

Spilling across empty floors

That remember laughter better than I do.

I wake up before the alarm.

Not from rest,

But from the weight of things unsaid.

Somewhere in my chest,

A clock ticks out of rhythm—

Beating to the memory of a voice I no longer hear.

Making tea has become a ritual—

Not just a task,

But a sacred pause between pretending and enduring.

The steam rises like unanswered prayers,

Curling around my fingers

While my mind drifts

To conversations that never ended properly,

To names I don’t say aloud anymore.

Outside, the world rushes forward.

People walk fast,

Shoulders tight, eyes lowered.

I wonder if they, too,

Are carrying letters inside them—

Unread, unsent,

Pressed between their ribs like folded fears.

We’re all performers, aren’t we?

Actors in the long play of ‘I’m fine.’

We post pictures where we smile wide,

Filter out the dark spots,

Blur the truth gently like a painter

Who doesn’t want to show the bruises beneath the canvas.

Yet, sometimes—

Oh, sometimes the sky forgets to act.

It weeps in broad daylight,

And we, the audience,

Allow ourselves to feel—

Even if only for a while.

I see children laugh on sidewalks,

Chasing shadows, not yet afraid of being alone.

Their joy is whole,

Untouched by the fractures that adulthood brings.

And in their laughter,

I find a brief reminder

Of a self I used to be—

Brave, curious, unbroken.

At night, I lie in the dark,

Ceiling above like a blank page.

I write poems in my head,

Composed of sighs, silence, and scattered memory.

Sometimes I wonder—

Is this all there is?

To wake, to eat, to smile on cue,

And then dissolve again into a version of myself

That no one fully knows?

But then, life sends small mercies.

A stranger holds the door.

A friend remembers your favourite song.

A letter comes in the mail—

Not blue, perhaps,

But using sentimental language Seen.

Held.

Human.

Life is not one long paragraph.

It is a collection of fragments,

Pauses,

Ellipses.

And these blue-letter days—

They are not meant to tell the whole story,

But to remind us that we are still writing.

Some days I walk to the old station—

Not to go anywhere,

But to hear the sound of departing.

There’s comfort in watching people leave,

Knowing that motion still exists,

Even if only outside of me.

And in those moments,

I whisper to myself,

“I am not lost. I am waiting.”

Perhaps for the next page.

Perhaps for a reply to the letter I never sent.

The truth is—

We’re all blue letters in someone’s drawer.

Unopened,

Unspoken,

Still full of meaning.

So yes, the days are quiet now.

But they speak.

Not in loud declarations,

But in folded metaphors,

In tea steam and clock ticks,

In sidewalk glances and the hush of dusk.

They whisper—

"You are still here.

And that, too, is enough."

Final Note (Optional Commentary):

This extended version of “Days Like Blue Letters” is a lyrical meditation on modern solitude, emotional exhaustion, and the quiet beauty of continuing to exist—even when everything feels paused. The blue letter becomes a metaphor for memory, emotion, and untold stories. Through subtle images and internal rhythms, this poem speaks to anyone who has ever felt unheard, unnoticed, or unfinished.