Letters Left Unsaid

I found the draft on the second shelf.

Written to you, or maybe to myself.

There is a bridge we used to cross in June,

but memory edits the color of the moon.

I write down 'gold' then scratch it out for 'grey'.

That is the cost of keeping things at bay.

And distance becomes a habit,

a mirror we learn to trust.

We build a house on the platform,

and watch it turn to dust. (ahhhh)

We stand so straight inside our little frames.

Two quiet statues playing polite games.

I saw my face in the window of the train,

not quite regret, just a habit of the rain.

I kept composed. I kept the secret safe.

But there's no glory in a silent archive.

And distance becomes a habit,

a mirror we learn to trust.

We build a house on the platform,

and watch it turn to dust.

(ooh, we watch it turn)

Just a letter never sent. (hummmm)