Echoes of an Unread Letter

In the quiet folds of time, I pen,

Words that dance like shadows, again and again,

Each stroke, a whisper of what could have been,

An unread letter, sealed with my unseen sin.

Ink stains on paper, a heart poured out,

Vulnerability wrapped in a whisper of doubt,

Lines trace the contours of dreams left to fray,

Stories unfinished, in silence they stay.

Lonely confessions, heavy with weight,

Messages drift in a world of fate,

A longing that lingers, like dusk before night,

Echoes of wishes, lost in their flight.

I write, and the ink bleeds my soul on the page,

Captured emotions, a delicate cage,

For every unspoken, a longing erupts,

The silence, a mirror where hope interrupts.

Some letters are never meant to be sent,

Held close to the heart, like the time we spent,

In the depths of my silence, they softly reside,

These echoes of longing, my secrets confide.

So here in the stillness, with trembling hands,

I weave my dear thoughts like intricate strands,

For the words left unuttered, I quietly fret,

In the echoes of absence, I'll never forget.