Mourning Cursive - These Words I Write For You

These words I write for you Fall apart before they land Collapsing before they’ve stood. They fail to come true They crack like porcelain in my hands, They crumble in to stray letters, Then to fractured phonetic sounds, Fragments of thought Scattering to the floor And soon they’ll be gone Swept away with the dust of my breath And I’ll still be here Haunting the same four walls, still breathing in the same dim room, while you are nowhere, not even a shadow in the arch of the doorway. My pen will run out of ink Mid-confession, Black ink pooling in the vein of a half-formed sentence. My pencil lead will snap scattering graphite dust like the remnants of conversations I never found the courage to have. My voice will go hoarse, Wearing itself down to raw air, the sound of it emptying into a hollow that does not echo back. Still— I’ll have these words All pent up inside An abandoned library With no open doors No light through the cracks No way to let them out. No way to reach you— To press them into your palms No way for you to hear The syllables I’ve starved For the shape of your name. Instead they sink into my bloodstream, staining it the color of unwritten pages. They surface only when I can’t bear them, when I carve them in the margins of receipts, or whisper them to the moths that circle my lamp until they burn. And these words I write for you Will sit in silence Like the dust on my breath, Like the glass in my throat, Like the ache in my handwriting, Like a room full of unread letters…… Waiting for a knock That will never come.