My dear,
I’m writing these lines on a quiet night.
Outside, the city has fallen asleep —
only the soft ticking of the clock drifts on,
like the breath of time itself.
Perhaps you wouldn’t expect this —
that I still write letters by hand,
in an age when people speak in short, glowing messages on a screen.
But there are things
that can only be written in ink,
so each word carries the warmth of the one who wrote it.
I don’t know where this letter will go,
or if you will ever read it.
I only know there are memories
that don’t need a listener —
they just need to be released,
so the heart can grow a little lighter.
You’re still the wind from those distant days,
passing gently through my life,
leaving behind a trace of sunlight
and a tender emptiness no one can fill.
I don’t wait for you anymore,
nor feel the sadness I once did.
It’s just that sometimes, on a rainy afternoon,
my heart softens a little,
as if memory itself were quietly whispering your name.
If I could send you something,
it would be a wish —
that you’re living peacefully,
and that somewhere,
someone makes you smile
the way you once made me believe
in the most beautiful things in this world.
I won’t sign my name,
because you’ll know —
there was only ever one person
who loved you with all the seasons that have passed.
