This letter is unwritten

And the words it speaks are deaf.

It will send no regards –

Or butterflies in the air,

Only unrealized whispers of love:

Soft but vanishing

Amidst the misty frost of nothing.

This is a letter.

Only it remains in the foregrounds of thought-

Never ending.

Never beginning.

Like the ink that almost kissed the stationery

The fancy lines in its crimson surface are like still waves- unmoved.

Thousand thoughts trouble this thinking.

As the letter in the mail remained unwritten.




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