Cracked Sidewalks and Unsent Letters

The chipped paint on my porch swing,
a pale imitation of summer sky,
that's how I feel sometimes.
Faded. A little broken.

The cracked sidewalk outside,
each fissure a tiny map
of the city's slow decay,
reminds me of conversations
we never had.

Words stuck in my throat,
like cotton balls,
absorbing all the feeling,
leaving only a dry, scratchy silence.

I see you sometimes,
across the street,
a blur of motion,
a flash of familiar color.
My hand twitches,
reaching for a phone
that stays stubbornly silent
in my pocket.

What would I even say?
"Remember that time…"?
"I was thinking about…"?

The sentences crumble
before they even form,
reduced to dust motes
dancing in the afternoon sun.

I have unsent letters,
piled high in a shoebox,
buried beneath old photographs
and faded concert tickets.
Each one a ghost of a connection,
a phantom limb aching
for a touch that never came.

The coffee shop down the street,
still smells like burnt sugar
and unspoken promises.
We used to meet there,
huddled in a corner booth,
dreaming impossible dreams.

Now, I just watch the rain
streak down the window,
remembering the way your laugh
used to fill the small space.

It's not sadness, exactly.
More like a quiet hum,
a low thrum of regret,
that vibrates beneath the surface
of my ordinary days.

I find beauty in the mundane,
the way sunlight catches
the dust swirling in the air,
the intricate patterns of frost
on a windowpane.

Small moments of grace,
that remind me
that even in the quietest corners,
life goes on.

And maybe, just maybe,
that's enough.

Maybe the unsent letters
are a testament
to a love that existed,
even if only in my heart.

Maybe the cracked sidewalks
lead somewhere beautiful,
even if I can't see it yet.

Maybe the silence
is just waiting
for the right words
to finally break free.