Unsent

I write to you
the way night writes to the sea,
without expecting an answer,
only needing to empty itself.

It was brief, our meeting,
no longer than a held breath,
no wider than the space
between one step and the next,
yet something immense passed through it,
a pull older than intention,
as if the world leaned closer
just once,
and then pretended nothing happened.

These letters
are birds with broken maps,
circling my hands,
never landing on your shoulder.
I fold them into silence,
slide them under the door of tomorrow,
where they wait like loyal dogs
that do not know you have moved away.

Your ears are distant rooms.
My words arrive barefoot,
knock softly,
and return carrying dust.
Distance sharpens everything,
it teaches a cruel geometry,
how two hearts can share a sky
and never share weather.

I tell myself: stop.
Enough ink, enough hunger.
Enough reaching across air.
But the words do not listen.
They spill from me
like water from a cracked jar,
like poems that learned your name
before they learned restraint.

I write you into margins,
into the steam of morning cups,
into the pause before sleep
when the body remembers
what the mind tries to exile.
This is not hope.
This is gravity.

Still, I write.
Not because you will read,
but because my heart remembers you
in verbs and commas,
because silence refuses
to finish the sentence.

These unsent letters
are not messages.
They are evidence
that love, once spoken,
does not retire,
it only whispers,
keeps breathing in the dark,
and waits for no one.