Letters I Never Sent, But Always Meant

They sit in drawers, in dusty stacks,

With coffee stains and paper cracks,

Each envelope a fragile shell,

Of stories I was scared to tell.

Some pages tear, some ink has bled,

From tears I cried but never said.

These are the words I wrote at night,

By lamplight, lost in silent fight.

To the friend I let drift away:

I miss you more than I admit,

Your laughter, your chaos, your stubborn wit.

I should’ve called, I should’ve tried,

But pride stood tall while time just died.

We said we’d always find our way,

But promises dissolve with day.

And now you’re just a memory,

Of who I was, and couldn’t be.

To the one I almost loved:

I watched you leave with gentle grace,

A silent ache I couldn’t face.

We danced around what wasn’t said,

While longing burned inside instead.

You looked at me with wondering eyes,

But I stayed locked in thin disguise.

You deserved truth, a heart unmasked—

Not someone haunted by their past.

To the mother I disappointed:

I tried to be your shining star,

But shadows reached me from afar.

You gave me love, a steady shore,

And still, I always asked for more.

Forgive the silence, sharp and cold,

Forgive the parts I didn’t hold.

Your strength, your fight, your endless grace—

They live in me, though not your face.

To the version of me I abandoned:

I’m sorry for the things I chose,

The way I broke to not confuse.

I wore their needs like second skin,

And lost myself deep down within.

You begged for time, for space to breathe,

But I gave all, with none beneath.

I should’ve held your trembling hand,

When life got loud, too hard to stand.

To the one who left without goodbye:

I never said the words I stored,

I thought you’d always wait for more.

But time is cruel, and death is swift,

You vanished in a silent drift.

I kept your birthday on my phone,

Still whisper “hi” when I’m alone.

I hope you knew, despite the end—

You weren’t just loved, you were my friend.

Each letter folded, never sent,

But every word, so deeply meant.

They live like ghosts within my chest,

Each unmailed truth I now confess.

I feared the cracks that words might make,

The tremble in the truth they’d shake.

But silence isn’t always kind—

It’s just a cage we hide behind.

Some letters never need a stamp,

They’re lit by memory’s flickering lamp.

They sail on winds of “what could be,”

Across the tides of memory.

So if you find a note one day,

Tucked in a drawer, just tossed away—

Know it was never lost in vain,

But written out to ease the pain.

A paper hug, a whispered plea,

A truth that once lived quietly.

Not meant for postage, time, or track—

Just meant to give my silence back.

Now here they rest—my heart’s lament—

The letters I never sent…

But always, always meant.