Letters She’ll Never Read

This is the last letter I’ll write to you. Not because I’ve stopped loving you—God, I wish I could— but because I need to start loving myself again. I can’t keep drowning in the ocean you left behind. So, I’ll write this and I’ll leave it here— like a gravestone for the love we buried.

Do you ever think of me when the night is silent? When the moon is too lonely and the stars refuse to shine? I wonder if the wind still carries my name to you. If the echoes of our laughter still haunt your walls. I speak to the void now, where you used to stand, waiting for answers that will never come.

Maybe one day you’ll stumble across this, and you’ll read them. Or maybe you won’t. Maybe they’ll stay here, like me— waiting for someone who isn’t coming back.

I have traced our memories into poetry, carved them into the spaces between my ribs. I bled ink onto these pages, but you will never read them.

If love was a war, then I lost every battle. If love was a dream, then I woke up too soon. And if love was a fire, then you were the match, and I was the one left to burn.