Somewhere between my pen and the paper,
I left behind whole nights 
where I wanted to say I missed you,
but only wrote about the rain.

I folded longing into corners of blank sheets,
watched the ink smear under my thumb 
and hoped that maybe silence
would reach you louder than a name.

Now those letters lie in drawers,
yellowed like the love I never confessed.
Maybe not all words are meant to travel 
some just stay, like dust in the chest.

.    .    .