You were three feet away.
Back to me,
close enough to reach
but I didn’t.
I couldn’t.

The letter was there,
pressed flat in my hoodie pocket.
The one I rewrote too many times
and still got wrong.

You were just sitting there,
doing whatever it is you do,
and I was watching you like an idiot,
thinking maybe this could be something
if I just gave it to you.

But I didn’t.
Even when you said,
“You got this.”
Even when your voice
was the only thing
keeping me steady in goal.

I wanted to give it to you
after that last game.
Or the day you looked at me
like maybe you knew.
Like maybe you felt it too.

I don’t even know what I was waiting for
a sign?
a moment?
You?

Now it’s just sitting there,
crumpled a little at the edges,
ink smudged where I held it too tight.
You’ll never read it.
And you’ll never know
how much I meant
every word I never said