A Lantern in My Chest

The envelope never sealed still rests in the drawer

beneath a velvet scarf that once held your perfume.

I wrote to you once,

when the rain laced the windows

like the softest form of grief.

The ink smeared not from tears,

but from the slow breathing

of doubt.

There was a lantern in my chest,

once its glow bright enough

to light all the miles between us.

I thought love was a train ticket

to the life we almost built.

But departure always came before decision.

The words sat, looped and formal,

a dancer on cracked parchment,

pressing close but never touching the heart.

I meant to say I missed you.

But instead, I wrote about roses,

about the dragonfly in the garden,

about a day we never truly had.

Some truths are too sharp

like a dagger wrapped in ribbon.

They cut gently, but deeply

when held too long.

And now, the paper yellows,

its sigh quieter than the letters I never sent.

I wonder if silence was the kindest ending,

or just another way to remain unfinished.

Even now, your name still blooms

like a pressed petal between pages

that never found their way home.