Letters Never Sent

There are letters
I never posted,
still sleeping
in the drawer beside my bed.

They know your name
better than I do now.
They carry addresses
to houses you no longer live in.

One begins with anger,
ink pressed hard
through the paper.
Another starts softly,
as if apology
could be folded neatly.

Some contain weather reports—
the winter I was lonely,
the spring I almost called,
the summer I learned
distance has many forms.

Paper is patient.
It keeps what mouths cannot.
It does not interrupt,
does not defend itself,
does not leave the room
while truth is speaking.

Sometimes at midnight
I open one at random
and read the person
I used to be.

How urgently she loved.
How proudly she hurt.
How certain she was
that closure required reply.

Now I know better.

Not every letter
needs a stamp.
Not every feeling
needs a witness.

Some words exist
only to be written,
so the heart may empty
without making noise.

Tomorrow I may burn them.
Or keep them forever.
Silence, too,
has storage space.