I wrote you once in quiet blue
The kind of ink that misses too
Each sentence knew you’d never read
Still I wrote them like they’d bleed
Letters that never stamped or flew
Just paper ghosts that once were true
They sleep inside a box I keep
Where old regrets are filed deep
I folded hope in every line
As if the words could still be mine
No postmark, no reply, no sound
But still I write, still love unbound
They’ll never leave this drawer of time
Yet somehow they still feel like mine