Letters are full of finality
an acceptance
of what’s written in them.
I wrote a few
as soliloquies in my head
fearing that ink on paper
would cement my words.

Everyone would like a chance to stray,
take back what has been impulsively said
unsend an email,
delete a message,
bury that which could heal at once.

Unsent letters
now pile up on my wooden table
hidden in plain sight,
mocking me
giving me one last chance
to speak that which remains
unsaid.