Letters I Never Got

I never had a letter waiting in the mailbox—

only a classmate who borrowed my notes,

laughed at my quietness,

and traded me for louder friends.

So I kept company with paper friends—

poets who never asked me to speak,

who fed me when I skipped lunch

and hid from the cafeteria crowd.

There was the dial-up’s hum, a boy’s sweet lies

that traveled through emails like love songs.

I left my small town of dust and daylight

for the city that sparkled like truth—

only to find his words were fiction,

and mine were the only ones real.

My father never wrote;

my brother got all his stories.

My mother once mailed an apology

through too many hands,

and it vanished before reaching mine.

Some words never find their way home.

Once, I loved a sailor—

his emails came from somewhere in the Pacific,

soft as tides.

We married barefoot on a beach

that glittered with salt and promises.

Then the sea kept him,

and the Wi-Fi grew quiet.

Now I want a penpal who writes like breathing—

someone who sends words instead of waves,

who shares midnight thoughts,

and laughter small enough to fit in an envelope.

Someone who reminds me

that even silence can be written to.