The Unsent

You opened the app at 2:47

and the cursor was waiting

like it always is,

blank and patient,

ready to hold

everything you'll never say

out loud.

They're leaving in three weeks.

Suddenly the things you didn't tell them

feel like they matter,

feel like they're running out of time,

feel like you should write something,

should confess something,

should be brave in the dark

the way you never are

in daylight.

You start with I.

You delete it.

You start again.

The thing about writing

is that it doesn't require

their face,

doesn't require you to breathe

while they read it,

doesn't require you to live

in the moment

after you've told them

the truth.

You can just type it

into nothing,

into 2:47am,

into the space between

who you pretend to be

and who you actually are,

and then you can delete it

and no one has to know

that you ever tried.

The cursor blinks.

You close the app.

In the morning

they'll still be leaving.

And you'll still be here,

not sending this.