Letters I never sent (Marcella Boccia)

I wrote them all in ink too pale,
on paper thin as winter air,
each word a ghost, each line a veil,
too frail to hold, too light to bear.
I sealed them with a quiet breath,
addressed to names I dared not speak,
to lovers lost, to dreams of death,
to days that bent but did not break.
They linger still in drawers unseen,
their edges worn, their voices spent—
a graveyard of what could have been,
these letters that I never sent.