Folded Silence

In the yellowed crease of paper,

I tucked the weight of unsaid things—

a letter folded tight with cracked ink,

words pressed in shadows.

I traced every line,

a breath held between trembling fingers,

heart poured out in quiet scrawls,

never sealed with hope, never mailed.

The stamp half-torn, an echo of doubt,

somewhere between want and regret,

letters unsent are like whispers

trapped under glass.

And so I hide it in old books,

a folded silence that never reaches you,

torn between speaking

and the unbearable still.