Letters I Never Sent

Letters I Never Sent

I keep them in a box made of birch.

Every word I never said folded neat.

Each one still breathing faintly,

as if they wait for a chance to live.

Your name is written on the first page,

then crossed out, then written again.

Some letters talk about the rain,

some about how silence changed its shape.

I used to think one day I’d post them all,

set them free into the world like doves.

But doves die too easily in storms.

And storms never stopped finding me.

Now I open the box once a year,

read them aloud to the dust and the light.

They answer softly, the way you would,

when you were still listening.