“Some things were never meant for messages,
they were meant to be written slowly,
until they felt like truth.”
If the world still sent letters through birds,
I would send you too many,
each one failing
to finish what the last began.
If ink could carry weight,
these words would arrive heavy,
pulling at your hands
like they refused to be put down.
I would write you in pauses,
in margins,
in the spaces where honesty
usually hides.
I would tell you
that what I feel has outgrown silence,
that it sits with me,
patient, certain,
becoming something I can no longer rename.
And if this letter reached you,
creased, unfinished, still warm,
you would not have to search between the lines
to understand it.
I have tried to call it something smaller,
something easier to hold,
but it is not.
It is love,
not the loud but quiet,
not rushed but patient,
the kind that stays
even when unspoken.
And if letters still existed,
I would not end this one
because some feelings
do not know how to stop
once they have found
the right person to reach.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 1:54 PM UTC
“Some things were never meant for messages,
they were meant to be written slowly,
until they felt like truth.”
If the world still sent letters through birds,
I would send you too many,
each one failing
to finish what the last began.
If ink could carry weight,
these words would arrive heavy,
pulling at your hands
like they refused to be put down.
I would write you in pauses,
in margins,
in the spaces where honesty
usually hides.
I would tell you
that what I feel has outgrown silence,
that it sits with me,
patient, certain,
becoming something I can no longer rename.
And if this letter reached you,
creased, unfinished, still warm,
you would not have to search between the lines
to understand it.
I have tried to call it something smaller,
something easier to hold,
but it is not.
It is love,
not the loud but quiet,
not rushed but patient,
the kind that stays
even when unspoken.
And if letters still existed,
I would not end this one
because some feelings
do not know how to stop
once they have found
the right person to reach.
He longed and longed , but rather he stop sending letters , he sent more and more until his final breath
