The ink smeared words bleeding slow

The ink smeared, words bleeding slow,

folded tight in the spine of an old book.

I read the lines again, stammering

through sentences I never had courage to speak.

Silent rooms held their breath,

the letter stayed folded,

a weight pressing against the paper,

heavy with the goodbye that never came.

I touch the smudges, hesitate,

then fold it back,

like folding away the past

inside the pages

where no one else will find it.