THE ALBUM

I wrote your name in silence.

But silence gave it back.

I folded every question

and left the answer blank.

This was never sent.

It had nowhere to go.

There is a page inside me

I never learned to close.

Not because I wanted you,

but because nobody knows

what to call the feeling

when it stays without a face,

when it sits inside the chest

like an unfinished place.

I did not know your number.

I did not know your name.

But something in the empty line

kept writing you the same.

I wrote a letter with no address,

to someone I could never name.

I left it open on the table,

but the silence never came.

I wrote a letter with no address,

with every word I could not say.

Maybe it was meant for someone.

Maybe it was meant to stay.

No address…

no name…

I wrote it…

anyway…

The ink was never certain.

The paper never lied.

It held the shape of something

I could not keep inside.

I kept it in a drawer

where the small things disappear,

not hidden from the world,

just too honest to be near.

I did not call it longing.

I did not call it loss.

Some feelings have no language

until they cost too much.

I wrote a letter with no address,

to someone I could never name.

I left it open on the table,

but the silence never came.

I wrote a letter with no address,

with every word I could not say.

Maybe it was meant for someone.

Maybe it was meant to stay.

If you were real, forgive me

for never finding where.

If you were only memory,

thank you for being there.

If you were just the part of me

that needed to be heard,

then let this be the envelope

around the final word.

I wrote a letter with no address,

to someone I could never name.

I left it open on the table,

but the silence never came.

I wrote a letter with no address,

with every word I could not say.

Maybe it was meant for someone.

Maybe it was meant to stay.

I wrote your name in silence.

But silence gave it back.

So I left the letter open.

No address.

No name.