If I could call you now, what would I say? Would I start with the weather, or would the silence get in the way? I rehearsed a thousand lines between the dark and the light, but none of them survive the thought of your voice on the line. Maybe I would just ask if you still wake the way we used to— slow, like the morning was afraid to arrive. I wrote it all down like a man with no home, every word a stone I carried alone. But the page stayed blank where your name should be, and I realized—there is no address left for me. If I could call you, would you still know my voice? Would the years fall away, or would they make me just a noise? I have sentences burning in the back of my throat, but the line is dead, and the words won't float. I write you letters that have no door, and I keep them where I can't send them anymore. I imagined the things I would explain— the reasons, the silence, the slow-growing pain. I would tell you the truth I was too proud to say, and ask if the broken could ever be remade. But the more I wrote, the more I saw that some conversations end before they begin, and the only listener left is the ache within. I wrote a letter to a ghost, pouring out what I needed most. But the address was gone before I began, and the ink dried in the palm of my hand. If I could call you, would you still know my voice? Would the years fall away, or would they make me just a noise? I have sentences burning in the back of my throat, but the line is dead, and the words won't float. I write you letters that have no door, and I keep them where I can't send them anymore. I still write them. Not because I think you'll read them, but because the writing is the only way I get to speak to you at all. The words are not for you now. They are for me. They are the room where our conversation still exists, even though no one is listening on the other side. There are things I will never get to say. Not because I didn't want to, but because the moment for them has already passed. Like a letter sent to a house that burned down years ago. The words are still true. The intent is still pure. But the door is gone. And still, I keep writing. Because saying it, even to no one, is the only way to let it leave my chest. If I could call you, would you still know my voice? Would the years fall away, or would they make me just a noise? I have sentences burning in the back of my throat, but the line is dead, and the words won't float. I write you letters that have no door, and I keep them where I can't send them anymore. I still write them... I still speak... Not to you... But to the silence where your name used to be.
