First Letter…
You’ve gathered dust inside me for decades. Half-spoken sentences, pocketed secrets, and words I meant to send when the time was right have lingered, untouched. The moment never came; it was always too tender, too raw, too late. So you stayed, cluttering the quiet.
About A Letter
I don’t write letters — not in the proper sense. I compose them in my head: tiny drafts of what I would have written if I’d had the courage or the stamp.
A Letter is a collection of unsent thoughts — the ones I can still remember after nearly sixty years of not putting pen to paper. I’ll add new ones too — mostly new ones. These letters are written to people, to myself, and to my memories. None needs a reply.