The Letter Never Delivered

by Sandeep Kumar Mishra

I wrote you a letter in the language of storms,

Each word a thunderclap, every sentence

a jagged bolt of lightning slicing the sky.

But the ink burned through the paper,

a scalding brand of truths too raw to contain.

Your silence, a fortress built brick by brick,

Loomed over my childhood like a shadow.

I climbed its walls with scraped hands,

only to find the towers hollow,

echoing with the ghosts of what we never said.

You spoke in riddles,

each one a needle threading confusion

Through the fabric of my years.

I wore it like armor, but it never fit—

always too tight, always cutting at the seams.

Do you remember the promises?

They crumbled in your mouth,

Ashes spat from a flame long extinguished.

Your love was a phantom limb—

I reached for it, felt its absence like a scream.

I learned to build my own fire,

But even now, the smoke stings my eyes.

The stories you never told

sit heavy in the corners of my mind,

Unspoken, festering, like old wounds

that refuse to scar over.

Anger became my compass,

Its needle trembling but certain,

Always pointing back to you.

I followed it through forests of resentment,

Through oceans of doubt,

only to find the wreckage of us.

I wrote you this letter,

But it will never find its way to you.

It belongs to the air now,

Each word a scream flung into the void,

hoping to echo, hoping to heal.