Unsent

The envelope holds its breath, sealed with the weight of words that circled and recircled, never landing.

Outside, rain rewrites the address on the window pane— each drop a small erasure, each moment a reason to wait another day.

I memorized your voice in the silence between sentences, the way you might have laughed at the metaphor I struck through, then rewrote, then left blank.

Some letters are cathedrals built to stand empty. Some are meant to burn still folded, still burning in the place where I keep what cannot be said.

The stamp expires. A new year blooms outside. But this—this careful nothing— remains my most perfect correspondence.