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I wrote
then paused,
ball pen hovering—
the words too bare.

They sat
on yellow sheets,
unsealed and unsent
in little brown envelopes.

A line
meant for truth,
one for letting go,
another for quiet peace.

I wrote
“I miss you,”
maybe even “I love you,”
then crossed half the page.

Sometimes
I read through
the unsaid in my heart,
and almost sent a word.

Your name—
blue, unfading 
crawl the old sheets,
but my voice never came.

What
could have healed
or stayed broken—
I’ll never know to say.

Only that
silence felt safer,
quieter, and maybe better
than something too true.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2025




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Book: Reflection on the Important Things