Letters to the Unsent

Letters to the Unsent

I’ve written you in weathered ink and drafts I never name,

in subject lines that start with truth, then backspace into blame.

The outbox is a quiet church where all my versions kneel—

A choir of letters to the unsent, humming what I feel.

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I’ve told you how the kitchen shook the night the mirror fell.

How coffee learned to taste like you, and keys forgot the bell.

I’ve typed, “I miss you,” seventeen and a half thousand ways,

then pressed “save as” instead of “send” and filed you into days.

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Some paragraphs grow teeth and bite the cursor clean in two,

Some soften into lullabies too simple to be true.

I stack them in a folder marked with names you’ll never see—

Apologies with training wheels, goodbyes that set me free.

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I used to think that healing meant the message had to land—

Your inbox is like a finish line, redemption on demand.

But every unsent sentence is a bridge I chose to keep,

a boundary made of paper that lets restless waters sleep.

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I write you in the weather now: a drizzle on the pane,

a wind that lifts the curtains just enough to say your name.

The page receives what you could not; the cloud absorbs the rest.

And ink becomes a gentle way to empty my chest.

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One day, I’ll print the kinder ones and leave off every plea,

just stories where I learned to stay with people, mostly me.

The stamps can stay in drawers tonight; the mail can keep its miles —

I’ve posted these to better ground my lungs, my spine, and my trials.

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So here’s my last unsent refrain, the one you’ll never get:

“I loved you, and I leave you, and I’m learning to forget.”

Then “save,” not “send”—a quiet click, a heart that won’t repent,

And I walk lighter, carried by my letters to the unsent.