The Letter Never Opened

By Taya Dukes

I am stuck in a house full of people who don’t understand who he was. All they know is what they hear.

I escape the room full of fake smiles and go up to where my desk waits.

I begin to write with a white-knuckled hand while in a dress made of silk.

The sunset, so bright and beautiful, brings a sense of warmth. The fresh air comes through the window and dries the tears down my face. Trees rustle, not loud enough

To cover the sound of sobs escaping me.

I write at that desk while people dance down below.

The music has a taunting ring to it.

What the taunting music means, I do not know. They probably wonder where I am, but I do not care.

The hatred I feel for my one love, Though he’s the one, who’s gone. He did not have to leave. He did not have to go. And yet he did

I write until no ink remains.

I now know what I must do. The rough paper, now filled with a sea of ink and tears, makes the letter wet and wrinkled.

I put his station address on it, but I know my letter will never reach him. And the letter will never be opened.