The Symphony of Unwritten Words

Fingertips trace windowpanes of thought,

glass smudged with the ghosts of sentences

that dissolved before ink could baptize them—

a hollow hum of unwritten hymns.

Here, in the attic of almosts and what-ifs,

silence wears the boots of a restless guest,

stomping over floorboards groaning with

the weight of commas left dangling—

But what if we let the chaos breathe?

We are origami people

folded from receipts and grocery lists,

creased by deadlines, torn at the edges

where dreams once fluttered like moth wings.

Yet in the marrow of midnight,

we bloom into constellations—

a chaos of stardust and thunder,

scrawling sonnets with lightning.

But sometimes,

the most sacred verses live

in the way dawn cracks an egg over the horizon,

or how a stranger’s laugh unravels

into a hundred frayed syllables

on a subway platform.

We are not poets of parchment, but pilgrims

of pulse—our veins humming lullabies

to the shadows we’ve orphaned.

Let the unwritten words rise

like steam from a teacup,

let them braid themselves into the smoke

of a campfire’s last sigh.

For the poem isn’t in the pen—

it’s in the surrender of holding nothing

and calling it enough.

So we unclench our fists,

let the alphabet of ache dissolve

into rain.

Final line:

The page, at last, breathes back.