Unposted

Some pages keep their silence in the crease, Ink pooled in curves too careful to reveal. A line begins, then falters into peace, Withholding what it almost dared to feel. They rest in drawers where light is seldom thrown, Preserved with care, in quiet acts of grace. No need to claim what's quietly their own, No rush to find a reader or a place. Their postage fades, but never feels erased, The words, though paused, still murmur in their sleep. Not every thought is meant to be replaced, Not every vow was made for one to keep. And should one open gently, just by chance, They'd find a thought the hand refused to name!