The Invitations I Never Sent

Old cardboard rests, a forgotten pile,

cracked edges lined with dust,

my fingers trace the names,

like footsteps fading in the rain.

Where are the celebrations now,

a time frozen like the ink

spilling tales I never told,

a white space to fill with laughter,

but only the hollow waits—

a silence thicker than the moments

I left unwrapped in a hurry.

The edges whisper stories of ‘what could have been’

and I ache for the clink of glasses,

the soft shuffle of chairs,

a bouquet thrown into the arms of newness,

a threshold crossed,

but here it lies,

in quiet rebellion—

the dreams suspended, like balloons,

adrift, untethered, losing air.

A neighbor’s wedding bell rings—

a distant sound pulling me

from the past, reminding me of voices

I can't return to,

inviting me to feast on what’s gone—

a joy wrapped in an illusion.